Preludes To The Nights To Come
by smc-27
Summary: AU: This morning, she was worried about making a fool of herself and fangirling over him. Now she's wondering how on earth she's going to make their on-stage love affair seem at all believable.
1. Chapter 1

He steps back to the microphone, shoots a smile to his lead guitar player. Guy's fuckin' serious about his playing. Puck doesn't think there are many guys who have better tone than Alex does. He hit the jackpot when he found that guy in Chicago playing Jeff Buckley and Clapton covers at that little dive bar. That solo was amazing.

Puck knows these guys on stage with him make him sound good. Well, better. He always sounds good.

As he's singing the last chorus, he sees this girl who has floor seats get hoisted up onto some dude's shoulders, so Puck kisses two fingers and points them in her direction. She goes a little crazy, shakes out her hair, but her friends stop her before she can pull her shirt up. She's definitely hammered, but whatever. She's having a good time and that's what it's all about.

This is his life. He asked for it, wanted it, did everything he could to make it happen.

It's a fucking cliché, but he loves every second of it.

... ... ...

Rachel lays on her bed with her headphones on as she leafs through the magazine that came for her today. It's an issue she's particularly interested in, because there's an article on one of her favourite musicians in this one. She just gets to the page, turns her iPod to her favourite song of his, and Santana taps on her door before walking into the room.

Rachel would be annoyed by the permanent grin on Santana's face these days if they weren't best friends. Besides, Santana has a lot to smile about anyway, since their other roommate and Santana's longtime boyfriend just proposed and she's wearing a ring Rachel helped pick out.

"Whatcha doin'?" Santana asks, sitting down on the bed. Rachel laughs a bit, holds up her magazine. Santana rolls her eyes when she sees the cover photo, this guy wearing a half-buttoned white shirt. He's holding a guitar, sitting on the edge of an Infinity pool, soaking wet. "God, could that guy be more of a cliché?"

"I love him," Rachel says needlessly. She's sort of joking. Sort of. She loves his music, and she's intrigued by him and how he came out of absolutely nowhere to take the industry by storm. Their styles are completely different, so she's not all that jealous.

"Yeah, I know," Santana laughs. She bats her lashes dramatically and places her hand over her heart. "Noah Puckerman. His songs are _so_ sweet and I want to _marry_ him and have his _babies_. I bought these edible panties _just_ for you."

Rachel's laughing at the look on Finn's face as he stands in the doorway.

"What the hell?" he asks.

Santana rolls her eyes and looks at him. "It was a joke," she insists, getting up and walking over to him. He kisses her forehead as he smiles. "And I didn't know you were home."

He laughs and tucks her against his side. "You'd have to fight Rachel for him," he says. Santana laughs.

Okay, fine. Rachel knows her admiration for this singer/songwriter isn't exactly subtle and certainly doesn't go unnoticed, especially not by her two best friends.

They all moved to New York together after high school. Rachel to pursue her career in musical theater, Santana to go to NYU for economics, and Finn to NYU because that's where Santana was going and he figured he could learn to be a teacher anywhere. Finn and Santana have been together (_together_, together) since senior year of high school. They're that weird couple no one thought would stay together. Now that they're 25 and he's finally proposed (Rachel thought she was going to have to intervene if he didn't come to that conclusion himself), everything seems to be working out for them. Santana works in the head office for an upscale hotel chain, and Finn is a teacher at a private school near their place on the Upper West Side.

As for Rachel, she decided to put off going to college, instead wanting to work as hard as she could to get her foot in the door of an industry where youth is infinitely important. Sure, there are stage actors of every age. She didn't want to wait until she was 30 before getting her big break.

She just finished a six month run in a revival of Beauty And The Beast. She's had other roles on Broadway, but this was her first lead, and she loved every second. The only thing she hated was the fact that it was only a six month run. Now she's unemployed again. The thing now, is that she has the connections and the reputation to choose her roles. People are coming to her. Unfortunately, there's nothing available at the moment.

Her fathers are proud. How could they not be? She left her small town with a million dreams everyone said were too big and too much. They said she'd never succeed. Some people said she'd end up back in Lima with her tail tucked between her legs and begging for a spot at the local community college. She had to prove them all wrong. She hasn't been back to that town in three years.

They just moved into this apartment a year ago when they all started making a little more money and could move closer to where they all work. Rachel thought of getting her own place, and she knows it'll happen once Santana and Finn are married (even if they say they don't care if she lives with them, that they want her to). She's not ready to be on her own yet. It's not that she's not old enough, or that she's scared, or anything like that. She just loves her friends, and she only knows a New York where they all live together. She's sure it'll feel completely different once she's on her own, and she just wants to hold onto this New York for as long as she can.

"Come on," Finn says. "I'm starving."

"I really wanted to read this article. You guys go ahead. I'm going to stay here," Rachel says, settling back against the pillows on her bed.

"Are you sure?" Santana asks.

Rachel looks over and sees Finn idly toying with the ring on Santana's left hand. Rachel smiles, nods. "Yeah. You two go out."

Her friends leave and Rachel skips back to her favourite song of Noah Puckerman's.

Sometimes she wonders how she can feel lonely when she lives in with two other people. This music makes it all go away a little bit.

... ... ...

The problem with playing L.A. is that that's where his manager is based, and that means Puck can't so much as take a piss without Ian fuckin' talking to him through the door. The guy (and Puck's publicist) burst into his room at 11:00 in the damn morning and wake him up, even though he was on stage last night and went out with a few friends after. And that was his publicist's idea, too. Apparently being seen out with some of his friends who are also in the music business is good for his image or something.

He doesn't give a shit about his image. That's Kurt's problem.

The thing is, Puck cares about the music. He wants to write and play and record and have decent album sales and a few hundred thousand people who'll come see him on tour. Kurt's all about 'social networking' and 'photo opportunities' and 'dating the right women'. That's another sore spot. Puck doesn't 'date' women. He has sex with them. Lucky for him, the last girl he was with was in the industry and she was all about making appearances and holding his hand, then slipping out of hotel rooms after they'd slept together. She didn't ask much of him. He didn't even have her phone number. Their publicists set everything up, and she just thought he was hot enough to have sex with a bunch of times before they 'ended their relationship amicably', or so the official statement said.

But whatever. His album sales have gone up 10 per cent since he hired Kurt.

He's a small town guy, okay? He learned to play on a guitar his uncle bought from a pawn shop in Vegas on some fucked up road trip. It's still the only thing, other than genes, he has from his dad's side of the family. He doesn't play that guitar much anymore, but it's in a case in the house he has in Malibu. Why Malibu and not some downtown condo? Because he loves the beach, that's why. No other reason, really. Anyway, it's not like he's home a hell of a lot anyway. He tours half the year, spends the other half in studios or doing press or whatever.

His manager is straight off television, he swears. Actually, he calls the dude Ari every once in a while (even though his name is Ian) because he's so much like Ari Gold it's ridiculous. But it's kind of cool, because Puck needs someone to rule with a bit of an iron fist, and Ian deals with all Puck's bullshit without complaining too much.

The complaining is Kurt's job, anyway. Puck would have been fine without a publicist, to be honest. He's kind of a dick, sure, but he doesn't think he needs anyone calling the shots and telling him what to do and where to go and whatever. That said, he gets paid to appear at night clubs. Not even to play. Just to show up and get his picture taken outside. They give him free drinks and he stays for a couple hours, and his bank account benefits. He really can't say that's the worst thing Kurt's ever done. But yeah, Kurt worries about every fucking little detail, down to the colour of Puck's tie when he has to wear one. Puck tends to say some really honest shit during interviews, and Kurt's always popping antacids and talking on his phone, trying to make sure these things don't get printed. Does Puck care if the world knows he lost his virginity at 13 to a girl nearly four years older than him? No. Does he care if people know he thinks Lindsay Lohan is a fucking train wreck and he can't wait to see her end up in jail or passed out in an alley in Tijuana? No.

Whatever. They deal with one another because Puck can admit that Kurt's not all bad, and Kurt loves the amount of Puck's money he can claim as his own. And Puck does make a lot more money now that Kurt's around, so it all evens out, he supposes.

But this? Them in his house when he's trying to fucking sleep? Not cool. Not cool at all.

"What?" he barks from his place, sprawled on his bed on his stomach. The covers are kind of on him, sort of, but it's fucking hot in this room for some reason, and moving feels like the worst idea ever. He's also naked. "'S'fuckin' early."

"It's after 11:00. Get up," Kurt orders.

"No." Puck at least rolls onto his back, making sure the sheet is still covering him. "Not giving you the pleasure of seeing the goods." Kurt rolls his eyes and Ian laughs as he looks at his Blackberry. "The fuck are you doing here?"

"The tour is almost over," Ian explains.

Puck gives an incredulous look. He might not be able to keep all his shit straight, but he knows he's only got one more show here in L.A., then he's got some actual time off. His label head is being a total cunt about his next record, and while he's writing, he's not trying to write for an album. It's different. He kind of likes it. He hasn't had a break in four years. He's three albums into his career, and it's kind of nice that he can just take a few weeks or however long and do whatever he wants.

"Yeah. I know," he says.

"Well you need. to fucking. _write_," Ian says, enunciating every word like Puck is some kind of moron. Puck rolls his eyes. "Look, you wanna keep making money and rolling in pussy? Write some fucking songs."

"I am writing," Puck explains.

"Yeah. That piece of shit you played me the other day? Never gonna work. You need a change of pace."

Wait. What? Change of pace? He doesn't like the sound of that. Last time they said that shit, he ended up on the fucking local news in his home town and doing a signing at the mall 'cause they thought he needed to get in touch with his roots. Total fucking bullshit.

"I'm not going home," Puck insists seriously. "Fuck that. I'm not doing it."

"Did I say anything about home?" Ian turns and looks at Kurt, who is just standing there with his arms crossed. "I didn't hear me say anything about home, did you?"

Puck runs his hand over his face. "Cut the shit, Ian. Seriously. What the fuck are you talking about?"

"You're going to New York," Kurt blurts out quickly, and he sounds way too excited about it considering they all know how much Puck hates New York. He likes to go there exactly once a year, and that's just to play MSG and then get the fuck outta there.

"Nope," Puck argues, shaking his head.

"Yes, you are. Ian and I have been working on getting you an amazing job, and..."

"Job?" Puck asks, sitting up a little further. "I have a job. Fuck you guys." He furrows his brow and glares at them. "And how am I supposed to write if you've got me some job?"

"It's not like you're going to be working at TGI fucking Fridays in Times Square," Ian remarks, still looking at his Blackberry. Puck's pretty sure Ian might be the first guy to ever die from one of those things, he's on it so damn much. "You're going to be in a production." Puck stares blankly, ignores the stupid fucking smile on Kurt's face. "On Broadway."

Before he can stop himself, he's laughing his ass off.

"Puck! Plenty of performers go to Broadway to showcase their talent! P. Diddy, Megan Mullally, Forest Whitaker. Oh! Jordin Sparks is..."

"You lost me at Diddy," Puck interrupts. "And fuck you both. I'm not doing it."

"It's a musical," Kurt carries on. "And it's rock music. You're perfect. They aren't even making you audition, which is quite a show of faith, since the only time they've ever seen you act was the time you hosted SNL."

"Pack your shit," Ian says, turning to the door before Puck can say anything else. "I worked my ass off to get you $10,000 a week. Your flight leaves at 4:00."

Well, fuck.

As he's sitting on the plane with Kurt next to him, he figures he can at least check out the script before he tells them all to fuck themselves and heads to his place in South Beach to write his next album.

... ... ...

Rachel went to the audition on a whim. She wasn't even what the casting call asked for, seeing as she's not blonde or 5'8" or blue eyed. She is, however, a great dancer and an even better singer, and she's desperate for work. Her agent told her to go to the open call anyway.

She honestly didn't think she'd get the part. She was told to sing a Broadway 'classic', so she used her old standby (On My Own). She was also told to sing a newer song, something with more of a rock feel to it, but nothing too heavy. She performed Jordin Sparks' Battlefied and sang as good as she could. When she got the call back, she threw on her dance gear and headed to the theater, only to find she was the only brunette in a sea of blondes. But she put her training to work, followed the not-exactly-easy choreography (she knows how this process works; they like to weed out as many people as they can as quickly as possible). She stayed to read through a scene and performed one of the songs with just piano accompaniment. She was the only girl not to flub the lyrics or the blocking.

But still, she was excited and completely surprised when she got the call saying she got the part. Her screaming and shouting had Finn and Santana running to her room in their pajamas to see what the fuss was about. The squealing (Rachel and Santana) ended in all you can eat breakfast (Finn) at the diner around the corner from their place that they all love.

She honestly thinks she's going to have a heart attack when the director of the show calls her personally to tell her who her costar is going to be. She's fairly certain she's going to hyperventilate. She's going to share a stage with Noah Puckerman. She's going to sing with Noah Puckerman. She's going to kiss Noah Puckerman. She's going to simulate sex on stage with Noah Puckerman.

She's blushing. Her cheeks are flushed, her hands are shaking, and there are a million butterflies in her stomach as she tries to explain to Santana what's happening to her right now, how her life is absolutely perfect.

"What are you talking about?" Santana asks, laughing as Rachel wears a path in the carpet in the living room with her pacing. "You need to slow down."

"I just talked to Patrick, and he told me who my costar is going to be, and I honestly don't know how on earth I'm going to be able to perform with him!"

"Yes, Rachel, I got that part." Rachel glares, but Santana just laughs again. "Who the fuck is it?"

"It's...Oh god," Rachel says. She takes a deep breath and turns to her friend. "Noah Puckerman." Santana bursts out laughing, ends up half laying on the sofa because she can't control herself. "Santana!"

"I'm sorry! It's just...God, you'll be pregnant within the month!"

Rachel puts her hand on her hip and scowls. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"It means you've practically mailed him a pair of your panties already!" Santana laughs, wiping tears from her eyes. "Get you in a room with him and you'll be naked in minutes. And doesn't he have to hump you on stage? You're going to fuck him."

Rachel fumes. The insinuation that she'd just spread her legs for Noah Puckerman so quickly simply because she has some silly crush on him is preposterous. She doesn't know him. Sometimes she feels like she does, but that certainly doesn't mean she's about to throw herself at him the minute he walks into the rehearsal studio. She is not that girl, nor does she plan on ever being that girl.

Even if his eyes are insanely beautiful and his little bit of a mohawk does ridiculous things to her stomach and his body is...

She is _not_ going to sleep with him.

Not right away and probably not at all ever.

She does not turn a blind eye to the stories about his womanizing ways. There was actually a report not long ago about him receiving an offer from one of the most prominent condom companies, wanting to name one of their 'products' after him. You see, his nickname, Puck, rhymes (rather unfortunately, she thinks) with a particularly crude euphemism. Or slang term. Whichever you call it. She doesn't know if there's any truth to that, but the fact that it was ever a story in the first place lets her know that he's not exactly a stranger to that kind of activity. The way she sees it, as long as his music continues to resonate with her, she doesn't care what he does behind closed doors. Or in the back of taxis or in alleys in Miami, if other 'news' sources are true.

"I refuse to even justify that statement with an answer," Rachel says defiantly.

"Oh, please," Santana says, tilting her head to the side. "Are you telling me that if he asked you, you'd say no?"

"I'm saying the odds of that happening are slim to none and I'm very aware of it. And I'm also reminding you, since you seem to have forgotten, that I'm not some average slut who goes around sleeping with every attractive man she sees."

Santana stands up, a little grin still on her face, and holds up her hands in defeat. "My bad."

She retreats to her bedroom and Rachel stays there in the living room.

She won't lie and say that if the stars aligned and he for some reason wanted to romance her, she'd say no.

He's _Noah Puckerman_, for goodness sake.

... ... ...

Okay, so he reads the script and it's actually pretty awesome. There's sex and he gets to punch someone, and he's supposed to make out with some hot blonde chick. Actually, he's told the girl playing the part is a brunette, but he can work with that. He's equal opportunity with his hot women. He'll take them as they come to him (and make them come when he does take them).

Someone - he isn't really sure who, but probably Ian and/or Kurt - have set him up in a sweet penthouse for however long he's going to be in New York. He's talked to the label and they're more than happy to 'let' him do this. He's seen the schedule, though, so he really doesn't know how much time he's actually going to have to write. He really hopes this isn't just them taking the bitch's way out before dropping him or something, but Ian has told him that's not the case. He fucking hopes not. Not that he couldn't or wouldn't get picked up by another label pretty easily, but that's a whole lot of bullshit he really doesn't need in his life.

So whatever, he's in this crazy nice apartment in a city he honestly despises. He's got his acoustic across his lap and a pen and paper on the table in front of him. That script he's supposed to be memorizing or whatever is sitting next to him, but whatever. He's writing a song about hating where you are but not knowing where else you want to be. It's a little different from the stuff he usually writes, but he digs it.

The thing about Kurt being his publicist is that the guy is around all the fucking time. Seriously, Puck can't escape the dude. He's got a little apartment in this same condo complex, which means he's showing up unannounced all the time.

Like right now.

"What are you doing?" Kurt gasps.

"Writing."

"You're supposed to be going over your lines and your music! Your first rehearsal is this afternoon, Puck."

"Isn't rehearsal where you learn this shit? Why I gotta know everything on the first day anyway?" Puck asks as he strums his guitar lazily. First of all, it's awesome to make Kurt squirm. Second of all, he thinks he's right. "Calm down."

Kurt pushes aside Puck's notebook and pen, sits down on the table so he's right across from Puck. "This is Broadway, Puck. _Broadway_." He enunciates every syllable. Puck just looks at him incredulously. "Most of these people have been performing for years, and if they haven't, they're still the best of the best. They take this seriously. You're already going to have a target on your back because you're walking in with no experience in theater. If you show up unprepared, they're going to hate you even more."

Puck shrugs his shoulders and smirks. "You say that like I care. Isn't Broadway just for people who aren't hot enough to be in movies anyway?" Kurt actually gasps, and Puck laughs. "Come on, buddy. I'll be fine. You know I'm good for this shit."

"This," Kurt says, picking up the script, "is not shit. It's _art_. It's fantastic. And so help me, I won't let you ruin it. Put the guitar down, because you need to at least know the first scene by this afternoon, and I'm going to help you."

Puck gives in.

What? It's just easier to go along with Kurt sometimes than hear him complain for fucking hours.

... ... ...

Santana is at work the day of Rachel's first rehearsal. Finn has a professional day. That means he's the one sitting on her bed 'helping' her pick an outfit fit to meet Noah Puckerman for the first time and make a good impression on him and the rest of her costars.

"Finn, you have to have an opinion on this dress," she says, annoyed as she puts her hands on her hips and stands 10 feet away from him.

He looks terrified. And maybe just as annoyed as she is. "It's...nice. And blue. It's..." She rolls her eyes. "I don't know, Rachel! I have no idea what you want me to say."

"I just want to look professional, but..."

"Rach, I don't want to hear about you trying to make this dude...whatever. You should have done this yesterday with Santana," he says seriously.

She throws her hands in the air. She did do this with Santana last night. They narrowed it down to 12 outfits, and Finn is supposed to offer male perspective on the situation. Him constantly telling her she's like his sister isn't helping her. Obviously she should have thought this through a little better. She never should have let him do this.

"Maybe I should have just bought something new," she says exasperatedly. "I still have time. I could go..."

"Rachel," he says, standing up and walking over to her. He puts his hands on her upper arms and she looks up at him. "You know I love you, even when you get all crazy and weird like this." She scowls and he smiles. "But seriously, no one's gonna care what you wear. As soon as you open your mouth to sing, they're all gonna love you anyway, so whatever."

She's so happy she let him do this. The thing with Finn is, despite the fact that he's lovably clueless from time to time, he always somehow manages to say the right thing. Like that. Even if they aren't singing at rehearsal today.

"Thank you," she says. He smiles and she takes a big breath to calm her nerves. "Now," she says, turning around to look at her closet again, "what should I wear?"

He groans, but she ignores him, and they (she) eventually decide on something for her to wear that is both appropriate and attractive.

Her hands shake the entire way to the theater. She's glad she walked, though, because the sound of her flats on the sidewalk gives her something to focus on. She runs her lines in her head. God, she loves this play. Not only is the dialogue well-written and believable, but the music is amazing. She knows Noah Puckerman's voice is perfect for these songs. The demos she's been listening to feature some random and (if she's being honest) mediocre session singer. She can't wait to hear Noah Puckerman singing these songs.

She wonders if she'll be able to break out of the habit of calling him by his first and last names.

She walks into the rehearsal space and sees Patrick, so she walks over and they share a hug and trade kisses to the cheek. He tells her she looks amazing, and she breathes a little sigh of relief. So far both he and Finn think the way she looks for this occasion is great, so that gives her some more confidence.

She sees a couple more people she knows from previous shows or just the small world that is Broadway. There's this actor she absolutely adores, who was an understudy for Beauty And The Beast, and a girl she absolutely hates, who has a small supporting role in this production. She's seen the cast list and had to bite her tongue when Patrick told her Tara is great for this part. Actually, Rachel has to agree. Tara is playing the girl who tries to come between the two main characters, played by Rachel and Noah.

See, the play is the story of a man and a woman. They're not exactly from opposite worlds, but they aren't from the same one, either. He pursues her until she gives in, then promptly breaks her heart. The entire third act revolves around his personal growth and the apology he sings to her in the middle of a busy New York street. She tries to walk away, but he says (sings) magic words and she stops.

Of course, there's much more to the whole thing than just the love story. There are complex metaphors and themes of love and forgiveness and regret. Rachel loves the story and knows this production will be amazing. She's going to do everything in her power to make sure.

Part of that will have to be getting rid of these stupid nerves. Noah Puckerman isn't even in the room yet and she already feels star struck. She needs to calm herself down. She knows people get like this when they meet her. There's no reason for her to be nervous. They're coworkers, colleagues, and they're going to be working together for months. She's sure this feeling will go away as soon as she shakes his hand and they get through this table read. They need to sell the sexual tension and attraction on stage. She doesn't think that will be a problem on her part.

He walks through the door and everyone in the room turns to him. Rachel's heart does this ridiculous thing in her chest. He's wearing a grey button down shirt and what looks like a very expensive pair of jeans. He's got Gucci sneakers on and his phone in his hand, script rolled up (she'd chastise him for that if he were anyone else). He looks up and sees everyone looking at him, so he offers that trademark grin to the room. Rachel watches Patrick walk over to him, shake his hand and start talking as they head in her direction.

Rachel can't even remember who she was just talking to, but the person left and now she's standing alone in front of Noah Puckerman (Patrick is there, but she barely registers it).

"Hey," Noah Puckerman says casually, jutting his chin at her. "I'm Puck."

"I know who you are," she says quickly. She wants to kick herself. He smirks. She thinks he likes that everyone knows exactly who he is and probably what they can expect from him. She extends her hand for him to shake. "I'm Rachel Berry."

His eyes are even more gorgeous up close. "Rachel Berry." There's something in his voice she's never heard before, not in any interview. It's not exactly unpleasant, but it is unsettling. "Never heard of you."

She's taken aback, knits her brow as she takes her hand from his. Everyone seems to be watching them, so she makes her face more neutral again before anyone can notice that she's suddenly very uncomfortable. She didn't expect that. She puts on a soft smile as she looks at him. He tucks his phone back into his pocket. She likes that she has his attention now.

"I've been in several shows. Most recently, Beauty And The Beast," she explains. She doesn't necessarily like that she has to, but she understands that he's busy and knowing which Broadway performers have been in which shows most likely isn't high on his list of priorities. "I didn't know you had an interest in theater."

He scoffs, looks at her like she's crazy. "I don't," he says seriously. "I don't give a shit about this stuff. I like the money and my manager's a fucking jerk. I didn't have a choice, so here I am." He pulls out his script, holds it up a little before letting it fall to his side. "I don't really get the whole Broadway thing."

Rachel sputters. How can you not 'get' Broadway? This is her life. Performing is her _life_. She really thought he, of all people, would understand that.

It's crazy, how celebrity makes you think you know people. It is very clear that this 'Puck' is nothing like the Noah Puckerman who writes gorgeous lyrics and performs on darkened stages with an acoustic guitar across his knees.

"Pardon me?" she asks.

He shrugs again (it annoys her) and glances around the room, not even looking at her as he speaks. "Don't get why you wouldn't just want to do TV or movies. They pay more and people actually care about it and shit." He looks back to her. She has no idea how to respond to this. "Plus, you don't have to live in fucking New York to do it."

Rachel can't possibly stand here and talk to him about this anymore. She needs to get away from him before her opinion of him is completely shattered and she ends up hating the music he makes that she's loved for years.

She decides she's going to let the content speak for itself.

"We should start," she says, looking up at him. "I think you'll find there's more to Broadway than what you've been so quick to assume."

She walks away because she cannot believe she just spoke to him like that.

However, she knows for a fact (she's not supposed to, but she accidentally saw a salary list on Patrick's assistant's computer screen the other day) that she's getting paid more than him. It made her feel great at the time. It feels even better now.

Puck watches this chick walk away. She's crazy hot. Too bad she's kind of a bitch. She's wearing this black dress with little white polkadots on it, tiny little straps. The dress is pretty short, and she's got these great legs and this little waist. Her hair goes down to the middle of her back, and yeah, she's fucking sexy. Making out with her on stage and dry humping or whatever the script calls for isn't going to be all that difficult.

He sits down next to her because Patrick tells him to. She avoids eye contact as she opens her script. Hers is all perfect, with none of the pages tattered. Talk about OCD. He opens his to the first page of dialogue and bends the cover back, runs his hand down it to crease it. He sees her looking at him as if she really wants to ask him what the fuck he's doing. He glances at her, sends her a wink, and she looks back to her own page.

He wonders if she's a fan. The first thing she said to him was 'I know who you are', so she probably is. She looks about his age, and she's all serious and uptight and tense, and he thinks it could be a lot of fun to change all that about her. Well, except the age thing, but whatever. And her body has to be awesome under that dress.

Fuck Kurt. No matter what that dude says, Puck isn't going to heed his advice to _'do not even dare to think about sleeping with a costar. On stage chemistry can make or break a performance.' _If Kurt saw this woman, he'd want to bang her, too. Okay, if he wasn't gay, he'd want to bang her.

Puck's a pretty good judge of people. He sees the way Patrick is looking at Rachel as she starts reading from her script. Dude wants her, if he hasn't already had her. Puck would straight up assume that's how she got the part, but she seems way to snotty for that. She'd probably slap him if he even asked her. She's one of these chicks who thinks talent is everything.

Maybe that's why she's stuck on Broadway.

After they read through the dialogue, which is apparently all the leads are doing today (the dancers or whatever are coming in to go over choreography, and he's thankful he doesn't have to do any of that shit), he catches Rachel carefully tucking her script back into her bag before saying goodbye to Patrick. She heads for the door, and Puck follows after her.

"Hey," he calls out, jogging after her once she's in the hallway of this building they're in. She turns to look at him, offers a little smile (he doesn't think she wants to, but whatever). "What are you doing right now?"

"Going home," she answers.

"Can I come?"

She stops in the middle of the hall and turns around. She's still walking in front of him, so he nearly runs into her. He takes that opportunity by the horns and decides he can pretend a little. He's an _actor_ now, right? He presses his body against her, uses the hand that isn't holding his script and holds her around the waist. Her dress is soft, and he's totally looking at her tits before he realizes she's staring at him with a seriously pissed off look on her face. He doesn't so much care about that. Her body feels fucking amazing against his. He'd love to get her naked and feel it the right way.

She does not like the innuendo in his voice, the way he said that, asked that question.

She hates that Santana may have been right. She hates even more that all those reports of what a womanizer he is (man slut has been the term of late) have been right.

"I beg your pardon?" she asks, pulling her body away from his. She hates herself for thinking his large hand felt good on her side.

He gives her his best grin, crosses his arms because he knows it makes him look good. "We should hang out, right? Build chemistry or whatever."

She actually laughs. That's just about the worst line she's ever heard. He must get by on his looks alone. (She doesn't doubt that he could.)

"I think we can manage that just fine in rehearsals, Noah." She turns to walk away, but she knows he's right behind her again.

"Call me Puck," he insists.

"Why?"

"'Cause I want you to."

She turns around again, puts her hands on her hips. He doesn't touch her this time. He's got one hand beneath his shirt, scratching his stomach. That shouldn't really be attractive. She's seen photos of him shirtless before. The little glimpse of tanned torso she can see should not send her heart racing. She chalks it up to the fact that he's standing in front of her right now, not just on the page of a magazine or a computer screen.

"So I should just do what you want me to?" she asks, annoyed. "Frankly, you're convincing me very quickly that would be a terrible idea."

He furrows his brow and stares down at her, puts both hands on his hips. "The fuck is that supposed to mean?"

"It means your charm leaves much to be desired. Your natural charisma might be enough for a lot of women, but it's not enough for me. I've known you only a few hours and you've already made disparaging remarks on my livelihood and lifestyle. You're delusional if you think I'm going to invite you to my place and do what I think it's safe you assume you expect."

Holy fuck, that was a lot of big words coming from this one tiny woman. He thinks that whole speech basically translates into _'Fuck you.'_

"So that's a no, then," he says. She lets out a huff and turns around again. But really? He's pissed. She doesn't fucking know him. Most people don't. And yeah, he said some shit about Broadway, but since when is it a fucking crime to say what you're thinking? "Well, this'll be fun."

"What are you talking about?" she asks, sighing as he falls into step beside her.

"Didn't think my costar would be such a bitch," he says, and it's a little harsh or whatever, but it's not like she's really given him much of a chance, either.

She turns to him and scowls. "Well, you haven't exactly been what I expected, either," she bites out.

She walks out the door and he wishes he hadn't signed that fucking contract, because he really doesn't want to do this shit anymore. He fucking hates New York, and Broadway is stupid and overrated, and this Rachel chick is fucking brutal.

He can't believe he gave up a couple months chilling in Miami for this bullshit. If he didn't owe his entire career to Ian, he'd fucking fire the guy right now.

... ... ...

"...And _then_ he had the nerve to ask me if he could 'come' to my house!" Rachel cries, using air quotes and ranting and gripping the stem of her wine glass tightly as Santana makes dinner. It's a rare occurrence and Rachel doesn't want to interrupt it.

"Sounds like someone wants our little starlet in his bed. Or your bed. Wait, what was that latest thing? On a road case backstage at a show?" Santana asks, barely able to keep herself from laughing.

Rachel doesn't appreciate it. Not at all. She's trying to express just how disappointing it is to learn that Noah Puckerman really is the prize ass the media tends to make him out to be. His personality is completely abrasive and nearly intolerable, and she's going to have to pretend to be in love with him. She's beginning to think that's going to take much, much more effort than originally anticipated. This morning, she was worried about making a fool of herself and fangirling over him. Now she's wondering how on earth she's going to make their on-stage love affair seem at all believable.

"Santana, this isn't funny," Rachel says seriously.

"It's a little funny," Santana insists. Rachel whines and lays her head on the counter she's sitting at. "Rachel, I've told you for years that guy is a total jackass."

"But his music is...it's _so_ good!" Rachel argues. "I just don't understand how someone who writes such beautiful music can be so...disgusting and closed minded."

"You need to stop freaking out about it. You have to work with him. Why can't you just turn a blind eye to what an asshole he is?"

"Because it's impossible!" Rachel cries. Santana rolls her eyes. "It's like when you find out there's no Santa Claus."

"You're Jewish."

Rachel rolls her eyes this time. "You know my fathers raised me to be well-rounded, and plenty of Jewish families still adopt the idea of Santa Claus as a holiday tradition," Rachel explains. Santana laughs again. "Anyway, it's like that. You can't just wake up the next morning and pretend Santa is still real. It's ruined. The whole illusion is ruined and...and it's all a lie!"

Santana stops chopping celery and puts her hand on her hip, looks at Rachel with a smile. "You know, it's really too bad you're not at all dramatic."

Rachel lets out a huff and grabs her wine glass, gets up and starts towards the hall. "I can't talk to you about this."

"Come on, Rachel," Santana says. There's still a little laughter in her voice. "Rach."

"Forget it! I'll just run my lines and pray he doesn't choke on his own ego!"

Finn walks through the door just in time to hear Rachel shouting that from her room, and he looks to Santana.

"Don't ask," she insists, shaking her head.

"Yeah, I don't wanna know."

... ... ...

"Oh! I forgot to ask! What's Rachel Berry like?" Kurt asks, practically giddy. Puck has just poured himself a glass of JD and Kurt is asking him all sorts of stupid and annoying questions about the show and mixing himself a martini at the bar in Puck's place. "I saw her two years ago in this tiny little theater in Brooklyn. She's fabulous."

"She's a raging bitch," Puck says, laughing a bit. Kurt's jaw drops. "Seriously. She's got fucking attitude. She hates me already."

Kurt puts his hand on his hip and narrows his eyes. "What did you do?"

Puck really doesn't appreciate that Kurt is just assuming the whole thing is his fault. Totally isn't.

"I didn't do anything! She's just a bitch. She's got a rod up her ass, and I don't mean that in the way you like," Puck says. Kurt rolls his eyes. Fuck that. Puck thinks his jokes are hilarious. "All I said was that I don't get the big deal about Broadway."

Kurt lets out a disappointed breath, braces himself against the bar and closes his eyes. "And?"

"And told her we should hang out and work on our chemistry."

Kurt laughs. "_And_?"

It's fucking annoying that Kurt knows him so well.

"And called her a bitch when she shot me down."

"Puck!" Kurt gasps. "She's one of the most promising Broadway stars! She turned down a role in Rent in London so she could do Beauty And The Beast here. Do you understand that dedication? Can you even comprehend how hard that woman works to hone her talent?"

"Hey," Puck says, offended. "You don't think I worked my ass off, too?"

"I didn't say that. It's just different in this world. She has to sing, _and_ dance, _and_ act. You write some songs, put on a tight tee shirt, stand in the middle of the stage and everyone loves you."

They both know it's a little more complex than that.

"Whatever," Puck says, taking a swig of his drink. "She's stupid and I don't like her."

Kurt starts laughing and swishes his drink around in his glass. "Apparently since you're seven years old all of a sudden, I'll remind you that you met her once and you really shouldn't judge people so quickly, Noah."

Puck sets his jaw. "Don't call me that."

Kurt sips his martini and shrugs his shoulder. "Just don't be an asshole to her. She's better than you, and you're lucky you're even allowed in the same _room_ as her." His phone rings and he grabs it off the bar, checking the call display. "Ooo! It's that wench from US Weekly that we hate. You want to see a _real_ bitch? Watch and compare."

Puck sits there, sipping his whiskey as he listens to Kurt talk on the phone. It really fucking sucks that no one's on his side here. Rachel really isn't anything special if you ask him, and he doesn't get why Kurt's got his panties all knotted up over her.

And she's better than him? No fucking way. In no universe is the chick he met today any better than he is. That's totally not right, and he's pissed at Kurt for saying it.

But yeah, he hates that cunt from US Weekly, and watching Kurt tear her a new one is kind of a nice end to his day.


	2. Chapter 2

They rehearsed all day, singing through the first act and working on their timing. Rachel kindly helped Puck with his phrasing, which, if you asked her, left a lot to be desired. He muttered a thank you under his breath, but she was sure he didn't mean it. And she's calling him Puck, because in her opinion Noah is far too nice a name for the jackass of a man she works with every day.

She sees the way he is with everyone, with women in particular. He thinks he owns every room he walks into, and she's not blind - nor is anyone else - to the little smiles and winks he sends to every woman with two legs and a pair of breasts. He sends them to her, too, but she rolls her eyes rather than giggles, turns her back rather than undoing another button on her top.

But they've been rehearsing for nearly a week, and their director is pleased with their progress and insists they all go out for drinks on Friday night to celebrate their first week 'as an ensemble'. Rachel can't argue, really, but seeing Puck in that kind of situation, where there is alcohol and his 'public' is really not something she's thrilled she's going to be a part of. But they're all allowed to invite friends, so Rachel and Santana get ready in Rachel's room while Finn sits on the sofa all ready to go and waiting. Maybe now they'll understand that when Rachel comes home ranting about the insufferable ass she has to work with, she's really not exaggerating.

Anyway, she walks out of her bathroom in the dress she's chosen for the evening, and Santana stops applying her lip gloss and stares at Rachel.

"Are you trying to make him swallow his tongue?" she asks. "Jesus. I can practically see your bellybutton!"

Rachel smoothes a hand over her dress and looks in the mirror. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

Okay, so the dress isn't something she'd normally wear. Actually, she bought it on a whim a few weeks ago, when she learned she'd gotten this role. She wanted to have something edgy to wear out with the cast (these things happen often enough). She's in a 'rock' show, and she didn't want to be seen in her normal floral prints or modest cuts.

This isn't very modest. Not at all. It's tight and short and the neckline is plunging. It's still tasteful, but it's definitely...Well, she'd say it's incredibly sexy.

And the way she's wearing her makeup, a little smokier than usual, and just a nude gloss on her lips, she thinks she looks quite good. Her hair is down in soft, loose curls, and she's wearing black strappy heels.

"You look hot as fuck," Santana says seriously. "Puck is probably going to lose his mind, which whether you want to admit it or not, is exactly what you want him to do." Rachel grins a little, shrugs her shoulder as she sprays on a little perfume. "You're ridiculous. Finn and I have a bet going on whether or not you'll sleep with this guy before the show is over."

"Santana!"

"What?" Santana laughs. "You better. I have a hundred bucks on it."

"I'm not sleeping with my costar. You know I have a rule against that," Rachel insists as she tucks her things into her little black clutch purse.

"Uh huh," Santana says, swiping on a little bronzer. "You also had a rule against drinking tequila, but we all know what happened in Mexico."

"Shut up!" Rachel laughs, tossing her lipstick at Santana.

"I'm just saying. You broke both those rules in one night with Jesse."

"Well, that was different! The show was over. We were...we were celebrating!" Rachel says in her defense.

"Right. Of course," Santana says. "Just like tonight you're celebrating the first week of rehearsals."

"For the last time, I'm not sleeping with Puck," Rachel insists. She practically stomps her foot on the floor, so Santana holds her hands up in surrender. Rachel chooses to ignore the smug grin still playing on Santana's lips, or they'll never get out of this room or this conversation. "Are you ready? I don't want to be late."

"I'm ready," Santana says, standing and smoothing out her satin top. It's gorgeous, and Rachel can remember the day Santana came home with it and claimed she knew she didn't have anywhere to wear it and it cost way too fucking much, but she bought it anyway because it makes her look incredible.

Rachel rolls her eyes when Santana adjusts her bra and turns to the side to look in the mirror. She's stunning and she knows it, but she's fishing for someone else to say it, too.

"You look great." She means it, of course. Santana is wearing her zebra print (it's more subtle than it sounds) one shoulder top, black and tones of blue and green, a pair of black shorts and black heels. She looks gorgeous.

"I know."

Rachel giggles and Santana shrugs one shoulder. "Finn is going to love those shorts."

"Finn wants to leave!" he shouts from the living room.

The girls know they've definitely taken advantage of the fact that he's very patient. He hasn't said a word until now, and they're ready anyway. When they walk into the room, he raises his brow and stands, smiling at them.

"Whoa," he mutters, glancing at Rachel.

"Excuse me, asshole!" Santana cries, hitting his arm with her purse.

"Ow! You look good, too," he tells her quickly. He looks her up and down. "Really good." She pouts, so he kisses her. "It's just Rachel...she looks all...like that."

Santana rolls her eyes at Finn, but turns to look at Rachel, who's tucking her hair behind her ear like she always does when she's embarrassed. "Don't do that!" Santana cries, swatting Rachel's hand away. It almost hurts. "You look great. And Puck's reaction will be even worse than his."

Finn rolls his eyes and pulls Santana towards the door, Rachel following behind.

He also whispers to her on the street while Santana climbs into the cab, telling her not to sleep with Puck because the guy doesn't seem good enough for her. She just laughs and tells him she knows about the bet, then he and Santana playfully bicker all the way to the bar because they'd apparently agreed not to say anything to Rachel about it. Why he thought Santana could keep secrets from her best friend, Rachel doesn't know. He should be fully aware by now that the girls share practically everything. He'd be scared to know just how true that is, actually.

Puck sees her walk through the door. Maybe it's because he and Kurt had dinner and drinks (more than they probably should have) with one of the other artists on Puck's label before hand, or maybe it's because she looks so goddamn fuckable in that dress, but Puck thinks he's ready to push aside the fact that they kind of hate one another. Seriously. Her tits look spectacular, and her legs are unreal and all tanned and shiny. That dress is fucking _ridiculous_ in the best way imaginable. She turns around and he sees the way it hugs her ass, and he sits down on a bar stool out of necessity. Fuck, tequila makes him horny and they'd been at a Mexican place for dinner. The thing with tequila is that once you start drinking it, you really can't switch to something else. He glances her way again, sees the Latina she's with. Sort of. His eyes are basically all on Rachel. He doesn't really get the point of that dress having a sleeve if she's going to show that much tit. It's not like that makes it conservative. Not that he's complaining or anything, but damn. He slides his tongue along the roof of his mouth as he thinks about how much he'd like to lick that strip of skin between her boobs.

It's really too bad she's not ugly. Or awesome. If she was hot and awesome, problem solved. But no. She has to be hot and bitchy. He'd usually just go for it anyway, and the chick would usually let him. There's no way Rachel would let him bang her unless he was like, dating her or something. And he has no intentions of doing that.

Kurt comes over with a margarita in his hand and stands near Puck. Apparently Puck doesn't look away from Rachel quickly enough.

"Well, I bet you're kicking yourself for making a bad first impression," Kurt giggles. (No seriously. Get a couple drinks into the dude and he giggles like a little girl.) "I'd say she looks good, wouldn't you?"

"Fuck you, Hummel."

"That dress...God, it's so tight I bet it took two people to get it on her," Kurt adds. He takes a sip from his straw and ignores Puck's glare. "_Oh_! She's coming over!"

Puck rolls his eyes, thinking Kurt's just being an idiot again. God, he'd kill for a beer right now. He supposes he could drink a Corona. Those are from Mexico, too. They're like, _made_ for chasing tequila, right?

But then he turns around to motion to the bartender and he almost elbows Rachel in her stupid gorgeous face.

"Shit," he says quickly, lowering his arm. "Sorry."

She actually laughs and raises her brow. She looks even better up close. The eyes, the lips. It's all really good. "I know you don't like me, but I didn't think you wanted to hit me."

He doesn't joke about this shit. He doesn't care if she does, but he doesn't. "I don't hit women," he says seriously. She seems to stop and make note of that, looks at him from the corner of her eye.

"_Ahem_," Kurt says dramatically, putting his hand on his hip. Rachel and Puck both look to him. "An introduction, if you will?"

Puck rolls his eyes. "This is my publicist, Kurt."

Rachel extends her hand, her elbow barely grazing Puck's stomach through the dark blue button down he's wearing. "I'm Rachel..."

"Berry. 25. New York by way of Ohio. Tabbed by _The New York Times_ as the next big Broadway star. You're fabulous," Kurt says, all in one breath. Rachel smiles, can't help but laugh. Puck rolls his eyes. This chick doesn't need anyone telling her how good she is. People say he's got an ego, but this woman's has been playing the 'I know more than you' game with him for a week. "I saw you in _Women On The Verge of a Nervous Breakdown_, and..."

"Oh, my god!" Rachel cries. "That production was so horrible!"

"Shut your mouth!" Kurt says seriously. "You were amazing! It was...It was a religious experience, seeing you on stage."

Puck and Rachel roll their eyes in tandem. "It was _terrible_," Rachel says. "I hope you didn't show up on one of the nights my Iván showed up to the theater so coked out that he could barely button his shirt without help."

"He was...Well, he was basically incoherent, but _you_..." Kurt takes her hand in his, holds it, and Puck swears he's going to fire this guy. "You were...you were a revelation."

Rachel laughs again. "Thank you. That's very sweet of you to say."

"See, you're not nearly as conceited as he's been telling me," Kurt says, taking another long sip of his drink.

"Kurt! Fuckin'..." Puck shakes his head.

"_I'm_ conceited?" Rachel laughs, sending him a look. Her eyes look so hot right now. "Just warn me if my head starts battling yours for space in the room."

"Oh, my god, I _love_ her!" Kurt says, putting his arm around Rachel and kissing her cheek as she laughs.

Seriously. Kid's about to get his ass _fired_.

"You're adorable," Rachel laughs. Puck rolls his eyes again. Of course, she's all over the gay kid. What the fuck, life?

"Oo! Cameron is calling. I must take this. Toodles," he says, kissing Rachel's cheek again. "We'll talk soon, though. We need to trade stories."

Rachel isn't exactly sure what stories they need to trade, but she isn't exactly against the idea of seeing him again. And not just because he called her fabulous and said she was a revelation.

"Is he...?" she asks, watching Kurt towards the front door of the club, margarita glass in hand.

"Queer as a three dollar bill? Yeah," Puck laughs.

"I was going to ask if he's okay. He seems like maybe he's been overserved."

"He's fine until he starts getting really handsy. Then I start pretending I don't know him," Puck says. Rachel rolls her eyes. "Your friend's hot."

Rachel follows his eyes to where Santana is sitting, rolling the stem of her wine glass between her fingers. Finn isn't there. Rachel assumes he's...somewhere. "My friend is taken."

"Shame."

"Pig."

"Prude." He smiles at her, and she can tell there's a stupid look on her face (a grin, she thinks) as he looks her up and down, focusing on her breasts a little more than can be considered necessary. "Though, in this dress. Well, shit, B Star, you almost look like you know how to have fun."

Her jaw drops at the use of the nickname she's earned from her fans. "How did you know my nickname?" she shouts over the music. He smirks lazily and shrugs his shoulder. "Kurt told you, didn't he?"

"Doesn't matter. I'm try'n'a tell you how good you look."

"I'll bet you are," she murmurs. He bends his head closer, she thinks because he didn't hear her. She didn't want him to. Flirting is a bad idea. The bartender comes over and sets two shots of tequila and two limes on the bar in front of them. "I didn't order these!" she calls after him. The guy just shrugs. Rachel looks around the bar before her eyes settle on Santana again. Santana smiles and wiggles her fingers in Rachel's direction. Puck laughs. "I _hate_ tequila."

"Buck up and do the shot, Ohio." He's already licking salt off his hand. He knocks back the shot and sucks the lime before Rachel has even decided whether or not she's going to do this.

She doesn't know why he went from calling her one nickname to this new one, but she figures it's promising that he has the ability to retain information. If only he could call upon that skill in rehearsal. He's supposed to have the first act memorized by now, and he's barely able to get through the first ten pages.

_Anyway_, now isn't the time to call him out on that. Again.

She shakes salt onto her wrist, licks it off, and tips back her shot.

She hates Santana.

"Do you want to meet my friends?" she asks, noticing Finn is sitting there with Santana again.

He leans over, his hand sliding along the small of her back, pinky grazing her ass. His chest is pressing against her arm, and she forces herself to keep both hands on the bar. "I wanna know what it'd take for me to get you out of this dress," he says lowly into her ear.

God, it'd be so easy to give in, to let him take her to wherever it is he's staying and let him..._let him._ But the fact remains that not only are they colleagues, but they've had approximately two pleasant conversations and a whole lot of unpleasant ones. They're just a week into working together, and she will not complicate that with sex, no matter how good his hand feels on her behind (where it most definitely is at the moment) or how positive she is that he could relieve the tension suddenly building in the pit of her stomach.

So she turns to him, pulls herself away, though his hand is still on her hip. He's smirking like she's already said yes to something she's got no intentions of saying yes to. "A hell of a lot more than a shot of tequila and your hand on my ass."

She grabs her clutch and turns on her heel, making sure to sway her hips just a little more than usual as she walks back to her table.

"Be strong, Rachel," Finn says proudly. Santana elbows his side.

"I don't understand how you can want so badly for me to be with him when all you've done for years is tell me I was crazy to like him at all," Rachel says seriously.

Santana shrugs her shoulder and smiles a little bit. "I just think it's hilarious that you won't admit that you wanna fuck him him." Rachel opens her mouth to speak, but Santana cuts her off. "You don't have to like someone in order to sleep with them."

Finn gapes. "Santana!" he cries.

Rachel is laughing, because for all Santana's talk about this, they all know she's only been with one man since Finn asked her on an official date when they were barely 17. Not to mention the fact that he's the man she's set to marry.

"I'm not talking to you about this anymore," Rachel insists.

When another round of tequila shots arrives at the table, Rachel groans and promises she's not drinking any more after this one.

She does have fun for the rest of the night. Maybe because almost every time she catches Puck's eye, he's looking at her.

... ... ...

If he's not making it up, she's totally dressing sexier now when they have rehearsals. And he doesn't have to do a lot of dancing (which is a good thing, 'cause he, you know, _can't_) but it's hard to remember even the few steps he has when she's standing in front of him or beside him and he can see down her shirt. Some days she doesn't wear a bra. Some days she wears these little workout bra things under her tee shirts. He really wants to just pull her aside and tell her that if she's trying to make him want to fuck her through the floor, she's doing a damn good job. And if she's just trying to tease the shit out of him and has no intentions of following through, then she needs to cut that shit out. There's little he hates more in the world than being sexually frustrated.

See, the thing is, he's gotten really damn good at reading women. He's always been really good at knowing when they want it and how they want it and, usually, how often they want it. In the last few years, he's had to be a little more careful with the kind of chicks he brings back to the bus or hotel or whatever, because some girls are _crazy_ and will do almost anything to say they fucked a rock star. No lie, he had one chick try to take cell phone pics during. That shit was ridiculous.

Whatever. Point is, he can't read Rachel. She dresses like she does and sometimes he catches her looking, but she totally shot him down that time he tried to take it further. If he smirks or winks at her, she rolls her eyes and tells him to _'Please pay attention to our work, Puck.' _If he's singing one of the songs really damn well, she'll still find the one tiny mistake and make a big goddamn deal of it.

He honestly has no fucking clue if she's into him or not.

It does not help that Kurt finds all this hilarious.

No, seriously. The 'What kind of berry...?' jokes are getting really fucking old.

"Puck!" Kurt shouts when he enters Puck's apartment. "What kind of Berry is on television right now talking about you?" Puck rolls his eyes. "Rachel Berry!"

But wait. She's talking about him? Why is he really scared of what that means?

Kurt turns on the television and Puck sits up on the sofa (he'd been laying down, strumming his guitar a bit and trying to work out a melody in his head). There's Rachel on TV in a pretty (hot) grey dress, on some talk show with that douchebag Puck hates from that stupid studio in New York. Her hair is half up, and she's smiling and laughing and whatever.

"No, really. I'm not even kidding. He's been great. He's very dedicated. I can tell he really cares about the production and his place in it," she says.

Puck smirks. Girl can lie damn well. He still doesn't really give a shit about this stupid play. He spends most of his rehearsals trying not to get yelled at by her or anyone else.

"So he's not the ego-maniac some people says he is?" the douchebag interviewer asks.

Rachel actually looks annoyed. She raises her brow and tilts her head. "Are you the ego-maniac some people say you are?"

Puck laughs along with the studio audience, and he's pretty bummed when the camera pans away from the douche in his ugly pinstriped suit. Kurt is chuckling and Rachel is still smiling on camera.

There is a little more banter, then the segment is over and it cuts to commercial, so Kurt turns the television off and drops the remote onto the sofa next to Puck.

"I'd say she's warming up to you, the poor girl," Kurt says, shaking his head.

Puck scoffs. "Naw. She's just a good liar."

Kurt rolls his eyes and heads for the door. "I guess she is. Your ego is out of control!"

Puck's mumbled, "Fuck you,"doesn't reach Kurt's ears, he knows, but it still feels good to say it anyway.

... ... ...

Rachel can tell immediately from the smug look on Puck's face as he walks into rehearsal that he saw the interview and most definitely heard the things she said about him. It was practically all some version of a lie, but this show doesn't need any bad press. People (critics) are already calling the whole thing into question because Puck isn't a trained actor. They're also wondering whether or not Rachel has the 'chops' to sing these rock songs. She can't speak for him (some days she, too, questions his acting abilities) but she's going to prove all those people wrong.

Okay, _fine_. She thinks he's going to prove them wrong, too. His delivery and stage presence are getting better by the day. Not that she's going to tell him that. God, he'd probably think he was the best thing to grace Broadway since Bernadette Peters.

Anyway, the way he's smirking at her right now is making her think he probably believes he's suddenly in her good books. He's not. He's not in her bad books, either, though. If she had to classify it, he's in her_ 'I don't hate you, but you could very easily change that with one wrong move'_ book. Or maybe her _'I tolerate you, and if you keep smirking at me like that, I'll beg you to do unspeakable things to me'_ book.

"'Sup, Ohio?" He stands next to her and crosses his arms. The little sparkle in his eye annoys her.

"Don't even try to use what I said in your favour," she warns him, taking off her cardigan. He squares his shoulders to hers. "I wasn't complimenting you, I was protecting the show."

"Sure thing," he says smugly. "The show."

She rolls her eyes, starts stretching for their rehearsal. He always makes fun of her, but she likes being loose and prepared for anything. You never know when you're going to be asked to jump into a dance number as part of practice. She's right in front of him, and she stretches her arms over her head, arches her back a little, and locks eyes with him.

"You seem to think my saying one nice thing about you means I actually like you," she says. She lowers her arms, pulls her foot up behind her to stretch out her thigh.

"You do."

"No," she laughs, shaking her head. "I tolerate you and you annoy me. That's how our relationship works, Puck."

He raises his brow and takes a step towards her as she stretches the opposite thigh. "Relationship?"

She laughs again. "Our _working_ relationship." He rolls his eyes, but he's still smiling. "Because we _work_ together. Granted, I work harder than you do, but I suppose that isn't the point."

"Not the point, but you're still bringing it up, hey?" he chuckles. He laughs a little harder when she shrugs her shoulder. She may or may not be smiling just a little bit. "What're we doing today, anyway?"

"Do you not read the schedule?" she asks, huffing in frustration as she puts her hands on her hips. She ignores the way he looks her up and down. "Your professionalism leaves so much to be desired."

"Whatever. I got other stuff to do, you know. This shit might be your whole life, but I actually have a job to do."

She scoffs, glares at him. "When you're here? In New York and working on this play? This is your job, whether you like it or not," she says seriously.

"Whatever," he mumbles.

She laughs (it pisses him off) and shakes her head. "Did you come up with that witty and intelligent retort all on your own?"

He has to stop himself from calling her a bitch. It's right there on the tip of his tongue.


	3. Chapter 3

So, Puck's really fucking stoked when he gets up and realizes what day it is.

It's I Get To Make Out With Rachel And Get Paid For It day.

See, since she was constantly bitching about him never knowing what was going on, he actually started paying attention to the rehearsal schedule. Well, paying attention to it more than just to check times and places. When he checked it last night and saw that not only was rehearsal an hour later than usual (sleeping in? always nice), but that they were finally going to rehearse the parts of the play where he gets to do awesome stuff, not just 'act' and 'sing', or whatever.

So he's really, really looking forward to today. And because he's not a complete ass, and because he likes to make a good impression on chicks he wants to bang, he makes sure he brushes his teeth (twice) _and_ uses mouth rinse _and_ flosses. Then he doesn't make Kurt bring him coffee like he usually does, because coffee breath is pretty rank.

See? He's _considerate_.

She's talking to Patrick next to the chair he's going to be sitting in later so she can crawl onto his lap and mack on him. No, seriously. The stage direction is that he sits in the chair, Rachel comes over and straddles him, then takes his face in her hands and kisses him. It's this big romantic scene or whatever, where she's at his character's place because she's returning a record he lent her or something. They get into this heavy conversation and he puts the moves on her and then they make out. Rachel probably knows all about the stupid metaphors and shit. All he really cares about is the fact that he gets to show her what she's missing. (He's a _good_ kisser, okay?)

She catches his eye, but doesn't really acknowledge him when he comes in, then Patrick has his hand on the small of her back and he's gesturing with his other hand, showing her whatever it is he wants her to do on stage. Puck doesn't really dig how this dude's always touching her, and how obviously clueless she is about it. Patrick clearly has a hard-on for her, and she's oblivious. Puck hasn't mentioned it, 'cause it'd just piss her off and make her do that thing where she's all self-righteous and treats him like he's a fucking moron or whatever.

Which he's not, for the record. He just doesn't actually care about enough people to show them what he's really like. That's why he keeps Kurt around. Yeah, the guy's a pain in the ass and totally fucking annoying sometimes, but he knows everything there is to know about Puck, good and bad, and he's still around anyway. To be honest, he thinks he'd go fucking crazy if he didn't have Kurt on his side.

Anyway, he kinda wants Rachel to see past the bluster and bullshit he usually displays. It's fucked up, since she's like, the meanest woman on Broadway and most of the time he thinks she doesn't give a shit about him whatsoever. At all.

He walks over when Patrick decides to take his creepy hands off her and go talk to someone else.

"Hey," he says, and yeah, he's smiling. She looks frustrated already.

"Good morning."

"What's with the ice queen greeting?" he asks, standing so he's facing her profile. She casts a weary glance in his direction before looking back to the set. "I'm about to tell you I love you, using music and shit."

She barks out a laugh and shakes her head. "First of all, as far as lines go, that one was terrible," she tells him, turning so she's facing him. He shrugs. "Second of all, Ben doesn't tell Rena he loves her. He tells her she's become important to him, and like a lent record you never receive back, he'd want..."

"_I'd always keep an empty space on the shelf, missing you, hoping you'd come back._" He delivers the line pitch perfect, with just the right amount of emotion. He knows he nails it. Her eyes get kind of soft and stuff, and she almost smiles. No. She's totally smiling. "Shoulda saved it for the real deal, huh?"

She arcs her brow. It's sexy, he decides. "Don't put so much emphasis on 'hoping'. You don't want to oversell it."

"Goddamn, you're impossible to please."

She laughs a little and shakes her head, switches off her phone. "Not impossible," she says, looking up at him.

Okay, she was definitely just flirting with him. He knows flirting, and she was just doing it. And damn well, too. He'd give his left leg to test her statement. He'd love to please her. Repeatedly. Without stupid Patrick clearing his throat, clapping his hands and calling everyone to work for the day.

There aren't many people in the room today, which Puck has mixed feelings about. Really, he thinks that if there were a lot of witnesses, it'd be pretty weird to make out with Rachel. He prefers his kissing to be behind closed doors. He's really not a 'PDA' kind of guy (unless his stupid publicist tells him to kiss on some girl to get some buzz going or whatever). And no, this isn't exactly PDA, but whatever. He doesn't want people around when he's trying to give Rachel his best stuff.

He really hates how long it's taking to actually get to the kiss. It must be two hours before they even get through half the scene. Yeah, he knows they have to finalize the blocking and actually start performing now, but he really doesn't think it's necessary for Patrick to always be touching Rachel and showing her where she needs to stand. She's a big girl; Puck knows she'd be able to take the direction if Patrick just said it from his chair like he does with _everyone who isn't_ Rachel. That dude is so not subtle.

Anyway, Puck finally gets to sit down in that chair and it's actually pretty comfortable, which is great, 'cause he basically has to deliver his second biggest monologue in the whole show while sitting in this chair. Patrick tells him to wing it. _Wing it!_ He's leading Rachel - a trained actor - around the set like she's a goddamn untrained puppy on a leash, but Puck's supposed to wing it.

Whatever, dude. You ask for it to be winged? It's gonna be wung.

What? Whatever.

He's talking now, delivering the lines, shifting his weight in the chair and stuff. He runs a hand over his head as he talks, and seriously, he's rocking this _so_ hard. He meets Rachel's eyes - and she's perfectly in character, of course - but he can also see her biting the inside of her lip a little bit, like she doesn't want to break into a smile.

As soon as she starts walking towards him, Patrick intervenes. He spouts off some bullshit about her marching to 'Ben' with purpose, because the guy's finally said something that actually convinces her he wants her, not just sex. Or whatever. Puck's just sitting there hoping he can recreate that performance. Actually, making it better would be ideal.

And he does. Shit, he even impresses himself. He was a little worried about this whole acting thing. Learning the lines is one thing, but performing them is another.

When Rachel literally stalks towards him, dropping the prop book she was holding along the way, he gathers that she didn't think it was too bad either. He has to remind himself not to change his face (stage direction says confused/intrigued/aroused) as he looks at her. She gets to him, places one denim-clad knee next to his thigh on the chair, then the other. His hands find her hips to steady her, even though no one has told him to do that. Shit, he just doesn't want the girl to fall or something.

She gives him this tiny little smile, puts her hands on his cheeks, and leans down to kiss him.

She pulls away far too quickly. Like, he barely even got a taste of her.

To Puck's surprise, Patrick totally calls her on it, and then they rehearse it like, 15 times. They pick it up from his last line and have her walk towards him from different angles. In one 'take', Patrick asks her to pull her top off as she walks to Puck. Both guys seem pretty into that idea, but she refuses, says it's unnecessary or whatever. Puck figures it is. It's Ben and Rena's first kiss, and what he knows of this play, it's a big deal for her to even be kissing on him.

But finally, on their last run through when Patrick has his eye half on the clock, they basically go back to how they had it all set up the first time around. Not that Puck's complaining. She's a really good kisser, even when it's 'fake'.

So he slips her the tongue this time, and she lets out a little squeak and tries to pull away. Puck runs his hand up her back to sit between her shoulder blades and keep her close. He doesn't know if she means to grind her hips against his just a little bit, or if she's just going with it because Patrick isn't screaming at them to stop and she thinks this is what the director wants.

When Patrick starts clapping and Rachel pulls away quickly, scrambling to her feet and wiping her lip with her thumb, Puck grins. He's pretty sure he just made the perfect move. Patrick tells them to do that on stage every night.

Their director leaves in a hurry claiming he's got someplace to be, and Puck leans back in his chair as he watches Rachel walk to the side of the room and grab her bag.

"You know, you're supposed to be professionals, here," she says seriously. He rolls his eyes, though her back is to him. "You're not supposed to kiss like that on stage. It's highly inappropriate."

"Got the take," he reminds her. "We'd still be doing the same fucking scene over and over again if you kept kissing me like you're afraid of me."

"I was playing a part!" she insists, hand on hip as she glares at him. He gets up and walks towards her when she starts towards the door. "Rena is scared of what being with Ben means. She doesn't just give herself up to men like that."

Puck holds the door open for her, walks with her down the hall. "That's the chick's whole problem, though. She's all scared and shit, and she needs Ben to take charge and, like, make her do the stuff she wants to do but thinks she shouldn't want to do." She stops and looks up at him. "Right?"

She laughs softly and gives a hint of a smile before she starts walking again. "That's actually a very intelligent and rather well thought-out observation, Puck."

"See?" He slugs her lightly on the shoulder. "Not just a pretty face."

She laughs again, harder and checks outside for paparazzi (they've been around almost every day since they started rehearsing). "Don't flatter yourself."

"Whatever," he mumbles. He always goes out the back so he can get into the car that'll take him back to his place. She never takes him up on his offer for a ride. He's not gonna offer today. "Wait, are you saying I'm not smart, or I'm not pretty?"

She gives him this seriously adorable little look and pulls her sunglasses from her bag, puts them on. "Which one would you take more offense to?"

She starts walking to the door as he shakes his head. She's walking backwards, which is, for some reason, totally sexy. "Why you gotta hurt me like that, Rachel?"

She wiggles her fingers at him as a goodbye and makes her way out onto the sidewalk. He chuckles as he heads to the service entrance.

Today was a really good day.

... ... ...

Rachel orders dinner in and locks herself in her bedroom. Yes, it's all so she can avoid questions from her nosy roommates about how her day went. See, she's been religious (almost to the point of annoyance, she's sure) about sharing with them not only her schedule (the morning of or night before rehearsals), but also what happens during the day.

She went to bed early last night and left for work early this morning. Rachel is aware that Santana knows her well enough that she has probably already come to some conclusion as to why Rachel is avoiding talking about work all of a sudden. She doesn't want to talk about it.

Mostly because kissing Puck, even when it doesn't really count, felt very, very good. Not even just his lips on hers (which was a very nice sensation) but the way his hands had found her hips or touched her back or her hair, the way he'd flexed the muscle of his thigh when she was straddling him, giving her this ridiculously wonderful sensation on the inside of her own thigh. She's embarrassed to say she was actually a little dazed after that last kiss, when his tongue had touched hers. She hid that well, she knows.

And that last stupid, silly part of her that's still a fan of his started to wonder what it'd be like if he kissed her because he meant it.

So no, she's not going to talk to Santana about it and let her best friend make all kinds of jokes. God, knowing Santana, she'd just burst out laughing until she cried and begged Rachel to say something so completely unfunny that it'd stop her tears.

She pretends to be asleep when Santana knocks at 6:00. Her father calls at 7:30, though, and she's forced to make noise as she takes the call and talks to him. Then, of course, he wants to talk to Santana about wedding plans or something or another. (Rachel doesn't even know; she's too busy hoping she can just slip back into her room and claim she has an early day tomorrow, which she does.)

Santana, of course, is far too clever for that. Finn is oblivious that anything is different from any other day. He's watching some baseball game and drinking a beer, grading papers. And yes, Rachel has told him several times that he really should not drink while he does his work, but he never seems to listen to her.

"Why are you hiding?" Santana asks as soon as Rachel ends the call with her father.

"I'm not."

"Don't lie to me, Rachel," Santana laughs. "What's going on?"

"Nothing. I'm just very tired. I had a long day, and practice starts early tomorrow," Rachel explains evenly. She's an actress, yes, but she's a terrible liar. Contrary to popular belief, those two things are very different.

Santana doesn't buy it. "How was rehearsal today?"

"It was fine," Rachel says. "I think we came close to perfecting the scene."

"Close? Rachel, you perfect everything, or you stay until it's flawless. What's with you?" Her face changes, and she narrows her eyes at Rachel. "You did something embarrassing."

That seems to get Finn's attention, and he looks over his shoulder at her.

"I did not," Rachel insists. She knows she can't lie anymore, and really, this is her job. Santana is going to go completely crazy about it, she knows, but there's nothing to be nervous over because this is all part of her job. "I basically spent my entire day kissing Puck in rehearsal." Santana's eyes go wide. "Don't even. It was for the show."

"Right," Santana draws out.

"Whatever," Rachel mumbles. "Look, I really am tired, and I really do have to get up early, so if you're done mocking me..."

"Hey, I'm not mocking you," Santana insists. "I just wanna know what it was like."

"Uh. Fiancé. Right here," Finn says, pointing to himself. Santana rolls her eyes, leans over and kisses his cheek. Then she looks expectantly back at Rachel to hear the story.

"Okay, fine. It was nice. He has very soft lips, and he's very...minty. Okay? Can I go to bed now?" Rachel says, throwing up her hands in frustration.

Santana laughs and sits back against the sofa again. "You're dismissed."

Rachel huffs and turns to walk down the hall.

She's really starting to consider getting her own place.

... ... ...

Puck is really weirded out when they get out of rehearsal one day and Kurt is waiting outside. Puck has meetings at the New York branch of the label, but Kurt isn't involved (or invited) to those. Puck's walking out the main entrance because Ian is in town and waiting in a town car by the curb.

So what the hell is Kurt doing standing there in his light grey suit with pink tie and pocket square (no joke).

"What the hell?" he asks himself under his breath.

When Rachel breezes past him in the hall and steps outside, starts talking to Kurt, he starts thinking...

But no...Those two wouldn't...

He heads out onto the sidewalk in time to see them walking around the corner, Rachel's head tipped back as she laughs, and Kurt's hand on her shoulder. What the actual fuck? The door to the car opens, and Ian is sitting inside typing something out on his BlackBerry.

"I'm from L.A., but this is fucking ridiculous weather," Ian says. Puck grunts in response. "Get in the car, Puckerman. My underwear are starting to stick to my balls." Puck chuckles as a woman on the street makes a disgusted sound and Ian smiles at her condescendingly. "Who was that little hottie with Kurt. Girl had an ass on her."

Puck balls his fist. Jealous? Fuck it. Yeah, he is.

"That's Rachel."

Ian starts laughing. "_That's_ Rachel?" he asks incredulously. "Well, shit. You get to fuck that girl on stage, you lucky bastard."

Yeah, they haven't really gotten to that part of the show yet. Friday. He's looking forward to it. "Yeah."

"You nailed her yet?"

"Fuck off, Ian. What does the label want anyway?"

They both know that's a 'no'. Ian, for once, isn't a dick and actually rolls with the subject change. "They want to generally talk timeline on your next album. With the hype the show's going to get towards the end, assuming you don't blow, they want to release an album within the year."

Puck makes some noncommittal noise and looks out the window. He sees Kurt and Rachel walking into some high end clothing store.

He's totally pissed that Kurt gets to hang out with her outside rehearsal hours, and she won't even give Puck the time of day. Maybe Kurt was right on that whole first impression thing. But whatever. Rachel could go shopping and do all that lame girly stuff with Kurt. Puck has something to offer that Kurt never will.

All she has to do is ask.

... ... ...

Rachel basically blushes from the time she gets up in the morning on the day they're to rehearse the all-important 'sex scene'. She blushes as she showers, making sure she's smooth in any place he may see or touch. (She's not going to be completely naked on stage...but _still._) She blushes as she moisturizes with an expensive lotion she bought the day before. (It smells amazing.) She blushes as she pulls on her nicest bra and panty set, because heaven only knows what Patrick will have them do, and their costumes aren't ready yet. (Rachel could very well end up shirtless in front of Puck, and the crimson red bra looks fantastic against her tanned skin.) She blushes as she pulls on a skirt, then decides on jeans. (There's no way all that's going to be between her and Puck are her panties. No way.) She blushes the entire way to the theater.

She only stops blushing when she sees Puck sitting on the floor, eyes closed with his head tipped back against the wall. He doesn't appear to have shaved. She's never, ever, gotten to rehearsal after him. Is he really that excited about this scene? And if he were that excited, wouldn't he have been waiting by the door just so he could remind her in a no doubt offensive and vulgar manner, what he gets to 'do' to her today.

Anyway, she's a professional, and she's not about to let this throw her off her game. Hell, she went completely naked from the waist up in a small and terrible three person play years ago. Granted, it was in n awful little theater and a maximum of 30 people saw the thing, but she did it.

(This is Broadway, and Puck, and tickets for the first two weeks of shows have already all but sold out. She's ignoring that part.)

She heads over to the set (the bed) and starts talking to Patrick, who's giving her direction and pointers and tells her, at the end of it, to, "Just go with it."

Go with _what_, exactly? Puck would surely manhandle her if she let him take charge, and the whole purpose behind the scene is to show how in sync Ben and Rena are. It's supposed to be give and take, them working together. She hopes Puck understands that as well as she does.

She feels him behind her before she sees or hears him. When she turns her head to look at him, he's yawning and scrubbing a hand over his cheek. His fingers make a scraping sound against the stubble on his jaw.

"'Sup?" he asks, jutting his chin towards her.

"How are you?" she asks, trying not to make it sound judgmental.

If she's being honest, he hasn't put much effort into his appearance today. Jeans and a white tee Hanes tee shirt is not exactly normal for him. Not to say he doesn't look kind of amazing with a five (or more) o'clock shadow and a shirt he could very well have bought at a Wal-Mart somewhere in the middle of the country when he was on tour.

"Tired," he mumbles. His voice is even lower than usual. "Ian's around. We went out last night. It was a late one." She has no idea who Ian is. She opens her mouth to ask, but he cuts her off. "Don't worry about it. I'm totally good to rock your world."

She actually laughs as she shakes her head. "You mean Rena's."

He shrugs. "Well, you're her, right? So Ben's gonna get her good, and by extension, I'm gonna get you."

She laughs again and pats his chest patronizingly. "Whatever you have to tell yourself." He glares. She notices a little redness in his eyes. "Hope you don't get performance anxiety."

"Bitch, please," he scoffs. She raises her brow and blows out her breath. She is very aware, right now, that Patrick has left the room and there's no one else around. "Don't even worry about that." He smirks at her and she knows he checks her out as she sets her things on the table in the room. He walks up behind her again. Against her better judgment, she doesn't move away. "Baby, I rock performances I'm not even there for."

She straightens up, intending to turn around, but he's directly behind her and she feels his hand on her waist, sliding down to her hip.

"Puck, that's..." His finger slips into the beltloop on her jeans at her hip. "That doesn't even make sense, and what are you doing?"

"C'mon, Rach." She closes her eyes. "You ever rub one out?" he asks, his chest pressed to her back, his voice low in her ear. "Thinking about me?"

"What?"

"Ever touch yourself? Pretend it's me? I bet you say my name when you come."

"I don't do that," she says seriously elbowing his side lightly, trying to get him to take a step back. He doesn't.

"Please," he pans.

She turns and presses a hand to his chest, pushing him backwards. "I don't."

"Babe," the says, tilting his head as he runs his knuckle along the line of her jaw. "There are three things women lie about. Their weight, their age, and whether or not they masturbate."

She pushes his hand away and takes another step back. She bumps into the table behind her, and it gets pushed hard into the wall. She steadies herself with her hands on the table. Puck's stupid grin and raised eyebrow are pissing her off, to be honest. She pushes herself up so she's sitting on the table, crosses her legs at the ankle and shifts her eyes to where Patrick is walking into the room again. She's never been so thankful to see him. She's not oblivious to the way he's always (seriously, _always_) touching her. Nevertheless, she's glad she's not alone in a room with Puck right now.

"I'm 110 pounds, 25, and I _do not_ masturbate," she says seriously.

She hops off the table, and she hates him a little for stepping forward so she ends up brushing against him as she passes to head to the set.

She hates herself right now, just a little bit. She's clearly been affected by his words. Not that he'd be able to tell. Surprisingly, this is the only thing that's happened to her today that hasn't made her blush. Still, there's a feeling in the pit of her stomach she knows has only one cause. Anyone who knows her at all could probably guess that she's a bit of a fan of dirty talk. And she knows this, his rather crude words, were probably nothing in comparison to what he'd say if she were stupid enough to let the situation move to a bedroom.

Stupid, yes, but her body wants it right now. She can't help that it's been a very long time since she was with a man. And no, she really does not do what he was harassing her about. She has in the past, but found that when you know how much better orgasm is when it's with someone else, it's very difficult to settle for something less. She's kind of an all or nothing type of girl.

She's obviously stuck in some kind of limbo right now, her head arguing with her body. Her head will always win this argument. Unless clouded by tequila, but that's totally not her fault. Blame that one on Mexico. She does. (What? They tell you not to drink the water. What else is she supposed to drink?)

Anyway, she manages to make it through the entire rehearsal, even if Puck's stupidly sexy scruff is burning her skin a little bit. She's very aware that there are 10 other people in the room, and Patrick, bless him, wants to keep this scene as tasteful as possible. He goes on and on about wanting to maintain the integrity of the stage while still pulling the as much sensuality as possible from the material. Basically what that means is that Rachel ends up beneath a sheet with her knees bent and legs parted, and Puck between her thighs. It's going to be backlit, so the audience can see shadows and movement, and Rachel and Puck are going to be making noises while the supporting cast, offstage, sings a song about temptation and how risky it is to give in to it.

It's all very artistic and rather technical. She feels her cheeks get warm once when she feels Puck hard against her thigh, but neither of them mentions it. She's actually surprised at his professionalism, given the subject matter.

She also calls Santana immediately after rehearsal is called to a close, because she's sure that if she doesn't put her mouth to better use she'll be begging Puck to prove he's not all talk.


	4. Chapter 4

It's totally fucked that he has to do an entire day of press for this freaking show right now, because they're a month away from opening and he doesn't think anyone gives a shit yet anyway. But he's at GMA in his dressing room, and he saw Rachel a few minutes ago wearing absolutely no makeup whatsoever. It'd be really great if she was ugly under all the paint or something.

Nope. Still hot.

Kurt is pacing, but Puck isn't sure if that's because he's freaking out about what Puck might say in one of these three trillion interviews or because his boyfriend said he'd call at 5:55 (which is early, but like, _way_ fucking early on L.A. time) and has yet to dial the fucking phone. Puck's about to call the dude himself, because seriously, there's only so many times you can tell someone to calm the fuck down before you want to throw punches.

When Kurt asks for the sixth time if Puck thinks Cameron's cheating, Puck stands up, grabs the blazer he's supposed to pull on over his white shirt and black vest, and leaves the room muttering curses under his breath.

Down the hall, he sees a dressing room with Rachel's name by the door, and he hears a bunch of stuff going on inside, and shit, he'd rather be with her and her team of makeup and hair people or whatever than sit and listen to Kurt be a total bitch about a stupid fucking phone call.

When he pushes the door open, he sees Rachel sitting in a chair in front of a mirror. She's wearing sweat pants and a loose tank top, and from the looks of it only about half her makeup is on. There's someone doing shit with her hair and whatever, and she's sipping that Starbucks tea she likes through a straw.

"Hi!" she says happily.

He grunts and sits down on the sofa in the room, closing his eyes. He can tell the other girls in this room are kind of freaking out about him being there. Not because they're trying to get Rachel ready, but because he's Noah Puckerman. Is it totally fucked that he wishes he knew how to apply mascara so he could just do it and tell these chicks to leave?

"Kurt's driving me up the goddamned wall," he mumbles bitterly. "Seriously. It's fucking three am or some shit, and he expects dude to call him."

Rachel laughs through a sip of her drink, meets his eyes in the mirror. "You just don't think like we do."

He raises his brow, smirks. "Did you just call Kurt a girl?"

She throws some kind of fuckin' shiny silver chick tool at him (he thinks it's for eyelashes, but doesn't care enough to ask) and starts talking about how relationships are blah, blah, blah. He cuts her off eventually, tells her it's way too early for that shit. He asks to see a copy of her schedule for the day so he can remind himself where he has to go and what he has to do. He's pretty happy that after this they just move to a little conference room at some hotel, and the press is coming to them. He's used to that kind of shit. He's pretty sure Rachel is, too.

Maybe this won't be so bad.

... ... ...

During about their twentieth interview, Puck falters and lets a curse slip. It's no big deal. He just says 'bullshit', and it's totally not even in a bad way. He just says he's hooked up with a sweet place in Manhattan so he doesn't have to deal with hotels and living out of a suitcase and 'all that bullshit'. Rachel laughs. The interviewer, of course, picks up on it and asks Rachel how it is to work with someone with as rough a vocabulary as Puck's notably is. Rachel says something amazing and charming, and Puck smiles and looks to the ground as she speaks.

But they've answered the same fucking questions over and over again all day. He swears that if he didn't have such a good view of Rachel's legs extending from under that tiny little green dress, he would have walked out of this room hours ago.

At the end of the day, he stretches his arms over his head and watches as Rachel rolls her neck.

"We need drinks," he says seriously. He's a little surprised when she nods.

"I'm completely starving. I know this great place nearby. It's a tiny little hole in the wall, but they have the best vegetarian lasagna I've ever had," she explains as her assistant for the day hands over Rachel's things. "What do you say?"

"You asking me on a date?" he asks, pulling the door open for her. Okay, so he's really, really lucky there are no reporters hanging around to hear this shit.

"Oh, it's not a date. I just don't like to eat alone," she tells him, throwing a sexy grin over her shoulder. "And you're paying."

"I see how it is," he laughs.

She turns around so she's walking backwards. How she doesn't trip in her crazy high heels, he doesn't know. "I'm glad."

He knows she watches him check her out before she slips into a room so she can change.

... ... ...

Alcohol clouds her judgment. A lot.

A lot of alcohol makes her do very stupid things.

Puck buying round upon round of drinks is not going to end well. She knows this. But she doesn't stop him, either. Maybe because he's actually being naturally charming, funny and open with her. He's told her more about his family, his upbringing. He's actually listened her when she's talked, and he's kept the sexual comments to a minimum.

The really sad thing is that by martini #6, she misses the innuendoes. She knows it's better this way, because if he were to, say, tell her he's the best she'll ever have, she'd be hopping off her bar stool and telling him to put his money where his mouth his. Or his mouth where...

"Why are you blushing?" he asks, laughing.

"I'm not! It's the gin! I swear!"

He raises his brow, then narrows his eyes and turns his head a little. He just caught her thinking about him in an entirely-too-sexual way, and she's almost positive he knows it. "Just the gin, huh?"

"Definitely. It makes me a little..."

"Slutty?"

"No!" she cries, giggling as she pushes at his thigh with her hand. She sees his watch on his wrist and jerks it towards herself. "Oh, my god! It's 1:45!"

"Yeah?" he asks, confused.

"We have rehearsal in three...four hours. Or something like that."

"So?"

"So! I have to...I need sleep. God, I'm going to be hungover," she mutters. Then she drains the last of her martini. "This is all your fault. We're going to be terrible."

She's not entirely sure when his hand landed upon her thigh, but for some reason she doesn't ask him to move it.

"We'll be awesome," he says, leaning a little closer. He smells like scotch and cologne, and it's really sexy.

She's in a world of trouble right now.

"I should go," she says quietly. His lips are so soft, she knows, and they're right there, and... "I really have to go."

She stands to leave, but he grabs her wrist. "Not alone."

"I beg your pardon?"

"I'm not letting you go alone. My place is like, two blocks from here," he explains. Well, that does sound nicer than trying to hail a cab right now. "You can crash."

There are alarm bells in her head. This is a terrible idea. They've been drinking, and he's looking at her with those eyes she could memorize, and his hand is warm on her wrist, fingers sliding over her skin. It's unfair, what with the amount of time she's spent watching his fingers over the years, for him to be touching her with them now. They're calloused and gentler than she thinks they should be, and it's completely natural for her to wonder what they'd feel like on the inside of her thigh or on her bare hip. 

_Completely natural._

"I don't know if..."

He backs her up against the bar somehow, boxes her in so his hips are gently pressing against hers and his hands are on her waist. "'S'not a negotiation. You're coming home with me."

_Oh, dear lord._

"Do you often force women back to your apartment?" she asks teasingly. Because he might be a complete flirt and have a reputation longer than the country is wide, but she's sure he's never had to do much convincing.

"Only the _really_ sexy ones," he murmurs, voice low. She doesn't stop the moan she lets out, and his fingers dig into her skin. "Goddamn, Rachel."

"I'm not sleeping with you," she states quickly, meeting his eyes, hers wide. He furrows his brow. "I'm not. I'm sorry. I...this, tonight, might have lead you on, but I'm...we're professionals. If it's a problem, I'll take a cab, but I'm not going to have sex with you tonight."

He probably smirks because she only said 'tonight', left a bit of a chance for a future encounter. Mostly because she's never been one to burn bridges, and also because she thinks that if she doesn't sleep with this man at least once in her lifetime, she'll die completely unfulfilled.

Gin tends to make her slightly (more) dramatic.

"Take a damn breath," he laughs. "Alright." He nods, steps back, pulling her with him. "We won't sleep together." She smiles and slings her bag up over her shoulder, starts walking ahead of him. He doesn't let her go though, his arm still around her waist. "Tonight."

She's surprised the drunk and slightly slutty part of her brain isn't kicking the sensible part into some dark corner. Really, all she'd like to do at this moment is perform the real act of what they've been rehearsing for days.

"What are you thinking about now?" he asks her as they walk down the sidewalk. She's surprised they aren't taking a car or something, but his hotel is really very close.

She wonders if he's planned this. After the restaurant she chose, he suggested this bar with top shelf drinks and a quiet atmosphere. She should have known he was just trying to get her into bed. He's been trying since they met. She's got no clue when she started welcoming it.

"Nothing in particular," she lies. "I think all the time."

He laughs loudly and makes fun of her for stating the obvious, and she shoves him so hard while he's laughing that he almost crashes into a bike rack. He grabs onto her arm at the last minute and she ends up against his side as they walk, a little crookedly, down the sidewalk. She doesn't know where all the paparazzi are that normally follows his every move, but she's thankful they aren't anywhere around right now. It would certainly look terrible for them to be walking into his hotel at 2:00 a.m. with his arm around her waist as they laugh together, obviously drunk.

It would look terrible, but she's almost positive she doesn't give a damn.

He accidentally touches her ass on purpose when they get off the elevator and step into his penthouse. She lets out a whistle (apparently doesn't care that he's touching her places she would have yelled at him for a few hours ago) and slips off her heels as she looks around.

"It's too bad you're living in such a shack."

"I know. I'm gonna write a letter."

"You can spell?" she teases, biting her lip after her own lame joke.

"Ha. You're funny," he mocks, following her into the living area. "Not a bad view, right?"

She stands with her hands on the glass and he doesn't give a shit, because it's not like he's the one who has to clean it. He can't help himself. He puts his hands on the glass so his forearms are grazing her waist, boxes her in and presses himself against her.

"It's gorgeous."

"You're gorgeous," he tells her. He means it.

"Puck." She's practically whining. "I told you..."

"I know what you told me. I'm telling you you're gorgeous." He kisses her neck, right above the top of her shirt. "It's cool."

He backs away, because if he doesn't and she doesn't push him, he'll end up taking her right there against the glass, and he's pretty sure that would be a bad idea and it'd get Kurt and like, the whole world really pissed off. Long range camera lenses are a bitch.

"Where's your place?" he asks, sitting back on the couch. She walks around the room, looking at the things he has laying around; his guitar, a notebook, a couple CDs.

"Upper West Side. I live with Finn and Santana," she says absently. "Are you writing?"

"Yeah, a bit." He shrugs, but she's not even looking at him. "Aren't they engaged?"

"Mhmm. What are you writing?"

"Just some new shit," he says. It's weird that they're having two conversations right now, but he doesn't mind. He just doesn't want to talk about music he's not finished with yet. "Isn't it weird to live with a couple?"

"Not really." She sits down across from him on the chair that matches the sofa. "They're my best friends."

"It's weird," he states. "What about when they get hitched?"

She shrugs one shoulder. He's pretty sure she's scared of the day that happens. "Nothing. We haven't really talked about it. I might move."

"Well, like, don't you get paid a lot for the show and stuff?"

"I don't feel comfortable talking about that." She crosses her legs and he catches a glimpse of panty. She's flashing him, but she won't talk money. "What are your new songs like?"

"Not done."

"Will I like them?" she asks. Her eyes are shining and she bites her lip as she smiles. She's fucking flirting with him. She's kind of a tease. He's not sure what to make of it.

"I don't know," he admits, scrubbing a hand over his head. He grabs his guitar. He always feels more comfortable with a guitar in his hands. "I don't even know if I like 'em right now."

"How come?"

"Dunno."

"Play me one," she requests, leaning forward a bit and grinning at him.

"Fuck you. No," he says, almost laughing. She bats her lashes playfully. "_No_."

"I'm an excellent critic," she says. He scoffs. She'd probably tear the songs apart note by note, word by word. "You know what my favourite song of yours is?"

"'S'that?" he asks, tuning his E string. He strums a chord and smiles when it echoes perfectly in tune through the room.

"_We Both Knew_," she tells him.

He's pretty fucking surprised. No one loves that song but him. The only reason it even made it onto his second album was because he fought his ass off to get it on there. It's this acoustic tune he wrote the night before the album was set to be mixed, and he called his producer at 3:00 in the morning to meet him at the studio so he could record it. The label hated it, but he wasn't about to back down, so they stuck it as the second last track and forgot about it. He's never played it live or anything.

"Really?" he asks.

She nods and closes her eyes, shakes her head a little bit. "That song...It's..." She stops, sighs and keeps her eyes on his when she starts talking again. "_You've got a shoebox full of all the words I never meant to say. But I'm not sorry. We both knew I'd break your heart someday._"

Jesus fucking...She can't recite lyrics to songs he wrote and expect him to control himself. That's just not fair.

He puts his guitar down and stands up. "We need sleep," he announces, because if he doesn't get her away from him he's going to do something awesome and stupid. She stands, wobbles a little on her feet. "You okay?" She nods and keeps her eyes closed for a second, then looks up at him. "I'll get you some water. You can take the bedroom."

"No, Puck," she argues. "I can't put you out of your own room. I'll sleep on the couch."

"Nah, it's no big deal," he insists. She follows him into the kitchen and he grabs a couple bottles of water.

"Thank you," she says, taking the bottle. He pushes her towards the bedroom and she looks around once she's inside. "Do you have...Could I borrow something to sleep in?"

"Uh, yeah," he says. Fuck. Her in his clothes... "Closet's fair game."

He turns to leave, to get the hell away from her, but she puts her hand on his forearm. "Thank you for tonight," she says quietly. When he looks at her, she's looking to the floor. "I had a lot of fun. And I'm sorry I got too drunk to go home and now you have to sleep on that couch and not in your bed."

"It's fine," he laughs. "C'mon, Ohio. Get some sleep."

She leans up and kisses him gently, just barely even a kiss on the mouth. He leaves without another word, because one more word would have led to him tearing her clothes off her. He would have made sure of it. He can't do that with her when they've been drinking. He wants to, but he can't.

He peels his shirt off and kicks off his jeans when he's back in the living room, draws the blinds closed and picks up his guitar. He starts plucking the strings quietly, too quietly for her to even possibly hear.

He likes the idea of her in his bed. He'd like to be there with her, but it's for the best - for a lot of reasons - for him to be away from her.

And anyway, he's got a melody running through his head he has to write down before it disappears. It's really fucked up that it's her voice singing it.

... ... ...

The only thing worse than waking up to a phone ringing is waking up to a phone ringing when it isn't even your phone. He's disoriented as shit and hungover, and he's pretty sure he only went to sleep an hour ago, so what the fuck is with people waking him up, the bastards? He pushes himself up off the couch even though his eyelids feel like sandpaper and his body hates him for how much drinking they did last night, and he goes searching for the phone that's ruining his life right now.

He finds Rachel's bag, and the sound is coming from it. The ringing stops, but then starts again 20 seconds later, and seriously, he wants to grab the phone and tell whoever's calling to fuck off with this shit at 6:00 in the fucking morning. But his mama raised him never to look in a woman's purse without permission, and other than the times he teefed money out of her wallet, he's followed her advice.

He pushes open his bedroom door without knocking, because it's his room and he's allowed, no matter who's sleeping in his bed. And when he sees her, sprawled out on her back with her hair all wild on the pillow and the sheets pushed down around her calves, he almost groans. She's wearing a pale blue button down shirt and nothing else, and _goddamn_, her body is amazing. He wants her so bad it hurts. Literally, sometimes. The fact that he knows how she kisses and how she feels when he's between her legs does not help him at all. Well, it helps him when he's alone and can really think about it and not worry about, you know, someone seeing him jerking off. It's not like he's gonna do that right now, though, even if he might be dying.

She must sleep like a dead person, because her phone's still ringing fucking constantly, and she's not budging or waking up at all. He has to sit down anyway, so he sits at the edge of the bed and slides his hand up her arm. Nothing. He moves it to her stomach and his fingers slip between the buttons of his shirt to touch her skin. The shirt rides up her thighs a little bit as he moves his hand, and he can't handle that and she might not want him to, so he pulls his hand away.

"Rachel," he says. His voice sounds like shit. That's what he gets for spending over two hours singing as quietly as possible and frantically writing notes and trying not to wake her. "Rach."

"Mmm," she moans, shifting a little. Yup, the shirt moves up and he sees her panties. She rolls onto her side and smiles a little. He grabs the sheet and covers her with it, because if he doesn't, he'll do something really fucking stupid.

"Wake up, Rach."

The phone starts ringing again (shocking) and her eyes fly open and she looks totally confused to see him there. "Oh my god. My phone. My _head_!" She brings her hand up to her forehead and closes her eyes. "What time is it?"

"Early. Answer that before I drop your fucking bag off the balcony."

She groans and finds her phone just after it stops ringing. Flopping back onto the bed again, she closes her eyes. "17 missed calls. All Santana."

"The fuck's her deal?" he asks, scrubbing a hand over his face. Fuck, he really wants to lay down in his bed right now. He could, right? She kissed him a few hours ago, so he's pretty sure he can lay down on top of the sheets she's underneath.

She makes herself comfortable and rolls onto her side again. "You distracted me with gin and charm and I forgot to tell her I wasn't coming home."

He laughs, and fuck it, he lays down on his back with his hands on his stomach. "Yeah. That was _all_ my fault. I was the one pouring martinis down your throat."

"I have to call her. She's going to be so mad," Rachel explains, already scrolling through her contacts. "I'm putting it on speaker. My head is pounding."

He knows he's gotta keep quiet, probably, or this Santana chick'll freak out even more than she probably already is.

"Rachel fucking Berry, I am so pissed at you right now!"

Puck grimaces and Rachel lets out a sigh. "I know. I'm sorry. I'm fine."

"You're fine! Oh, good. Here I was calling hospitals for nothing. Of course, I wouldn't have had to do that if you'd answered your fucking phone! What the hell is wrong with you, and where are you?" Santana asks angrily.

Puck's kind of interested in how she's going to answer that. She looks at him across the pillow. "I went for dinner and drinks with Puck. It got late and...I'm so sorry I didn't call."

"Where the hell are you?" Santana asks seriously. She clearly wants an answer.

"I'm...at Puck's," Rachel says, significantly quieter than any other part of this conversation.

"God," Santana mutters. "At least tell me you fucked him so I can collect my hundred dollars."

"Santana!" Rachel cries, scrambling to take the phone off speaker while Puck laughs.

She scurries into the bathroom and closes the door behind her as she talks. It's dumb, 'cause he can still hear her. And damn, her friend is betting on whether or not she'll sleep with him? Maybe he should talk to this crazy Santana chick and they can rig the thing. She can give him inside info. It'd be a win-win; he could fuck Rachel and Santana could get her 100 bucks from whoever.

Rachel steps out of the bathroom a few minutes later, and he only looks at her legs a little bit as she walks back towards the bed and drops her phone into her purse again. She's totally embarrassed, head down and tucking her hair behind her ear. "I'm sorry about that. Santana is...well, apparently she's out to humiliate me."

"What's humiliating?" he asks, brow furrowed.

She tilts her head at him. "You just overheard that my two best friends have a bet going as to whether or not I'll sleep with you." He smirks smugly and clasps his hands behind his head. "Don't look at me like that. What?"

He shrugs and tries to will her to come closer, to lay on top of him or for her clothes to miraculously fall off or something. (What? _It could happen_.)

"Which way are you leaning?"

"Do not push your luck. I am hungover and we have to be at rehearsal in exactly 30 minutes," she says curtly. She grabs a hair elastic from her bag and quickly pulls her hair into a ponytail. "Do you mind if I get dressed?"

He shakes his head and gets comfortable. "Do your thing."

"Puck! Come on. Please."

"Mmm. Say that again."

She rolls her eyes and shifts her weight onto one leg. "How can you be so sweet one minute and such a pig the next?" He shrugs again. "You're infuriating. Apparently you need alcohol to speak to me like a normal person."

Okay, that was a shitty thing for her to say. He sits up and snags her wrist before she can pull it away. "That's not really fair. You know I'm just fucking around." She sighs and looks at him, then nods as she takes a deep breath. "And a heads up on the fact that you're a moody hangover would have been nice."

"I'm sorry," she says quietly. "I hate hangovers, and Santana and Finn are both mad at me. I hate it when people are mad at me."

He rolls his eyes. "You're a big girl. You can handle a night out without them cuffing a fucking tracking device to your ankle. Tell them to fuckin' chill."

"That's basically what I just said," she says, sitting down on the bed next to him. "She didn't appreciate it."

"Too bad. Tell her to mind her own shit."

She laughs and looks over at him. She looks super hot when she laughs. "You know, for a man who can write such gorgeous lyrics, I'm amazed by the way you talk. And not in a good way."

He thinks about the song he spent most of the night writing, looks at her brown eyes, the way the collar of the shirt she's wearing gapes a little, how her body is angled towards his. He wants to..._God_. He's never written a song for someone else to sing before, but this one is...it's hers.

He's fucked.

... ... ...

They've been at rehearsal 45 minutes, and it's already a complete train wreck. The early hour (honestly, 6:45 is far too early for a rehearsal) and her hangover is making it basically impossible to do any of these things effectively. Not to mention, there was no time for breakfast by the time they got out of his suite and into the towncar to take them to the studio, so she's running on empty and there's nothing to soak up whatever alcohol might be left in her system.

She looks at him and he must be thinking exactly the same things, because he looks as miserable as she feels. She's waiting for her direction as Patrick goes over the blocking with Puck for what must be the fifth time.

"Jesus, am I working with amateurs here?" Patrick asks in frustration. "You two come in here smelling like alcohol and completely unprepared to work. It's fucking ridiculous."

"Relax, dude. Maybe if you didn't call us here at the ass crack of dawn, we'd be more able to fuckin' do our shit."

Patrick ignores Puck and turns to Rachel, hands on his hips. "I didn't expect this of you, Rachel. Him, maybe. You're a professional. You're supposed to..."

"Back off," Puck says harshly, walking closer. "Don't be a dick."

"I beg your pardon?" Patrick asks incredulously. Puck doesn't back down. Rachel watches nervously as the two men stare one another down. "Get off my set."

"What?" Puck laughs.

"Get off my set. Both of you. You're useless to me right now," Patrick says, and he sounds bitter and rude and awful.

Puck leans in close. Rachel has to admit he definitely looks intimidating, all muscle and hard angles. "Careful, Pat. Your jealous is showing." Rachel looks up quickly and sees the men face to face, Patrick looking pissed and Puck looking smug. "She's not gonna fuck you."

He walks past Patrick, then past her, winking as he goes. She looks at him as he leaves. She wants to follow him. Patrick is an ass and a complete flirt, and he touches her too much all the time, and though it's innocent it's neither necessary nor welcome, and she thinks Puck is kind of amazing for saying what he just said. She never would have, but she likes that Patrick now knows that there's no way she's ever going to sleep with him. _Ever_.

So she grabs her bag and heads quickly to the door without a word to Patrick or anyone else. She catches up with Puck right before he steps out onto the street, touches his elbow so he'll turn to face her. They're standing there and people are looking at them (him, mostly) but she doesn't care. She smiles and he smiles and she doesn't really know what to say to him right now.

"Would you like to get some breakfast?" she asks.

"Shit yeah. If I don't get a coffee in the next 20 minutes, I'm gonna die."

She laughs loudly as they start walking down the street together. "I think being in the theater really has made you somewhat dramatic."

He looks down at her from the corner of his eye. "Learned that from the best around."

She scoffs and shakes her head, turns down another street to take him to her favourite coffee shop. "I'm not the best," she admits.

She doesn't think she's the best. She knows she's not. She knows that in some circles, she's called arrogant and conceited, but she just knows that she's talented, more talented than others. But she's not the best. There was a time when she was young and self-absorbed and always the best in her tiny little town that she thought she'd storm onto Broadway and win awards and be loved and all that. Now she knows it doesn't work out that way. She's just another performer on Broadway whose name most people don't know and probably never will. She's still incredibly talented and well-known in musical theater circles, those circles are just rather small.

She's not an internationally-renowned pop star.

"The fuck you aren't," Puck scoffs. She shakes her head. "I'm not even gonna talk to you about this shit, 'cause you're a moron if you don't know you're the best up there." She laughs. He really has quite a way with words, doesn't he? "The humble thing was cute for like, a second. Don't annoy me with it now."

"You're rude," she says, laughing as she pulls open the door to the shop. He grabs it and holds it open for her. There he goes proving her wrong again. "Thank you."

She sees people staring at him, probably college students, judging by the laptops and travel mugs she sees. Part of her wonders why they're all here so early, but she doesn't really care, given that it doesn't make much of a difference. Puck seems totally oblivious to it. She wonders if that's what happens when people spend so much time staring at you. Do you just get used to it and not even notice it?

"Damn, I need a coffee the size of my face," he claims, stretching his arms over his head. Rachel laughs again and shakes her head, pulling her wallet from her bag. "Put that away."

"No," she says seriously. "I'm paying. You got dinner last night."

She wonders if she should speak a little more quietly. The people in this shop are trying to be discrete about it, but she sees no less than four camera phones out and she does not want to wind up on Perez Hilton's blog or something with people assuming she spent the night with Puck.

It's barely 7:00 and she's in last night's clothes. They're going to assume it anyway.

"Don't care. Pretty sure I can spring for a muffin." She bursts out laughing, which makes him laugh, and she presses her face against his arm, totally forgetting about the witnesses and cameras. "Fuck, you're cute."

She moves away and steps towards the cash, ordering him the biggest Americano available (she's seen his Starbucks cups before and knows what he drinks) and a breakfast sandwich. She orders herself a soy caramel latte and a piece of vegan banana bread. He grabs her wrist again before she can hand over her money, the reaches for his wallet.

"You're not paying for breakfast," she says seriously, hand on hip because she's not letting him do it. "I want to." He opens his mouth to say something but she cuts him off. "Besides, I'm making more money than you."

She thanks the barista while Puck stands there with his mouth open. "_What?_"

... ... ...

He doesn't really know how he ended up sitting on the couch in Rachel's apartment with his second coffee of the day in his hand and her talking about the brilliance of Sondheim and whatever. She's hilarious. Seriously, she's had one coffee and she's like a hummingbird on speed. She made another pot of coffee when they got to her place, and he's really hoping she doesn't reach for a cup, because he doesn't even want to know what she'd be like with more caffeine in her system.

Her place is nice. It's post-war, she told him, so whatever that means. The walls are painted colours he just knows she picked out, and the furniture is mis-matched in a really matchy way. Like, nothing really goes together, but that's why it goes. There are antique-looking things and there's a big couch and a huge entertainment system that makes it look like there actually is a dude who lives here.

"What do you do after this?" she asks during a lull in conversation. "After our run, I mean."

He shrugs his shoulder like what he's about to say is really no big deal. "Cut a record. Tour again, I guess."

"You don't seem all that enthusiastic," she notes.

Seriously, this, her reading him so well, is becoming a problem.

"New York's growing on me."

He leaves it at that, because he doesn't want to give her any more reason than she already has that she has anything to do with that. Which she does. The truth is, as much as he'd hate to ever admit it, there's something here between them that's more than just the fact that she's smokin' hot and he'd love to tear up the sheets with her a few times. Yeah, he definitely wants that - right now would be great, actually - but the more time he spends with her, the more he starts to think she's just a really great girl, and the more he learns about her, the more he wants to know. He hasn't felt this way about someone in a long, long time. Ever, maybe. But he doesn't want to think about that because it's way too fucking heavy and he and denial are old friends.

"Well, you're going to be here for almost another six months anyway," she points out nonchalantly, like she knows there was just too long a silence after what he said, too.

"You glad?" he asks, brow raised and a smirk on his face.

She rolls her eyes and smiles and shakes her head, which basically lets him know that when she says, "No," she doesn't really mean it.

They hang out a while longer, and when she stands and stretches her arms over her head, he catches sight of her stomach and the arch of her back, and fuck, if they're not going to end up in her bed today, he really needs to leave. He really, really needs to leave. The entire problem is that he doesn't want to. He actually likes spending time with her, even if she's not naked and begging him to fuck her harder. (It's a shock to him, too.)

"I'm exhausted," he announces. "I might..."

"Want to see something?"

Um. Maybe?

"Sure."

He says it mostly because he's learning you can't really say no to Rachel - like, ever - and get away with it. He doesn't really mind when she starts leading him back through the apartment to her bedroom. He didn't really get a good enough view when she gave him the little tour earlier.

He walks in and she's standing with her back to him, fishing for something off the top shelf of her closet.

He chuckles. "Need a little help, there, Shortie?"

She rolls her eyes, but moves out of the way. "It's the white book up there," she explains, and he gets it with no effort at all, hands it to her. She holds it in her hands and opens it, and he should probably be looking at the pages but he's a little distracted by her. "Look."

He's looking. Just not at the thing she wants.

He glances down at a crazy scrapbook page of a bunch of pictures of her as like, a five year old. She's on a stage in what looks like rags, hair all messy.

"That's you?" he asks, which he realizes is really dumb, because why would she be showing him pictures of random kids?

"I just...You make comments about New York and my sometimes intense devotion to the stage," she says. He smirks, but he doesn't want to tell her she's intense all the time, not just sometimes. Even if it is pretty much the truth. "It's what I've wanted my whole life. It's all I've ever done. If I'm...overwhelming, it's just because...Sometimes I feel like one wrong move could take it all away, you know?"

She looks up at him and her eyes are wide and vulnerable, and she looks gorgeous and she's just opened up to him and admitted shit he's pretty sure she's never really told anyone else before. He didn't really need the explanation and probably didn't deserve it, but she gave it to him anyway, like she wants to tell him things about herself.

"I get that," he says, nodding a little.

She's just staring at him like she's trying to figure him out or something, then, the scrapbook still in her hand between them, she puts her palm on his face and leans up on her toes to kiss him.

And this isn't like last night, when she just pecked his lips and walked away. This is her waiting for him to kiss her back, which would be a whole lot fucking easier without her life story sitting between them and jabbing him in the stomach. He doesn't kiss her back, really, but he's smirking when he pulls away so she'll know he's got plans to. He takes the book from her, and he can tell she like, covets it, or whatever fancy word she'd use, so he reaches up and puts it back on the top shelf of her closet.

Basically as soon as he's got it out of his hands, he grabs her face and brings her lips back to his, because fuck, yeah, he's kissed her, but it never really meant anything. This does. This means...Fuck if he knows, actually, but he knows he doesn't want to stop, and judging by the way she's grabbing the collar of his shirt at the back of his neck, she doesn't want to either.

He backs her up to her bed until her knees hit the mattress, then lays her down with himself on top of her.

And look, he's not gonna fuck her today. He doesn't know why, but he's not. Maybe he just knows she won't let him.

He doesn't even remember the last time he just wanted to _kiss_ a girl and nothing more.

"Thank you," she breathes into his ear when he moves his lips to her jaw line.

He's got no clue what she's thanking him for, so he just mumbles something incoherent and keeps doing what he's doing, 'cause she seems to like it pretty well.

... ... ...

Puck is gone before Finn and Santana get home for the day, and it's because Rachel pushed him away and told him he had to leave.

She's not stupid. If her friends came home and she had this man on her bed, they'd freak out and things would get crazy, and she doesn't want to deal with any of that. The problem, then, becomes that she doesn't know what the hell she's doing or why she's kissing him at all or what happens next.

She'd wanted to kiss him. She _has_ wanted to kiss him. He's not as terrible as he was in the beginning, and she might really like who he is. They've had great conversations and he's just so _sexy_. Maybe it's a bad idea, but she doesn't care right now, not when she can smell him on her clothes and still feel the effects of his stubble on her skin.

She just needs to talk to someone about it. Finn is usually impartial when it comes to her love life. Of course he wants her to be happy, and he's protective and he worries about her, but it's not like talking with Santana.

"Well, well," he says, arms crossed as he stands in the doorway to her bedroom. "Look who decided to come home."

She rolls her eyes, in part just to get a better look at her bed to make sure it's not a disaster. Nothing truly scandalous happened upon it, but she just wants to cover her tracks.

"Yes, Finn. I realize I was inconsiderate last night."

"We were really worried, you know," he tells her seriously.

She sits down on her bed and looks downward. "I know. I should have called. I wanted to, but I got..."

"Did you sleep with him?"

She's surprised by the bluntness of his question, and she looks up at him to see that he's got his arms crossed in some kind of protective stance.

"No," she insists firmly. "No, I didn't. Of course I didn't."

Now she's incredibly nervous to tell him about what happened this afternoon. But, god, she gets this crazy feeling in her stomach when she thinks about the way Puck touched her, the way he used his mouth on her skin and unbuttoned her jeans but didn't do anything else, which was basically the worst kind of torture.

"I kissed him," she admits hurriedly. Finn sighs, but when she looks at him, he's wearing a little smile. "Today. Here."

He crosses his arms and watches her. She plays with her fingers and waits for his response. She can't tell yet whether it's something she wants to hear or not.

"You actually like him," he says after a few moments.

She rolls her eyes, but she knows she's not fooling him. "Maybe," she admits. "Is that weird?"

He laughs and walks further into the room so he can sit next to her. "Not really. I mean, you basically were in love with him before you met him, then he was a dick, so that part's a little backwards."

She laughs, rests her head against his shoulder. "He's...He's a superstar," she says quietly. "He's famous all over the world."

She means it as a reason not to get involved. For the one with the money _against_ her, Finn says something kind of perfect to encourage her.

"And apparently he wants you."

She smiles and suggests they go make dinner, but she can't stop thinking about Puck and the way he felt on top of her.


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N:** Firstly, thank you all SO much for the reviews and comments. They are all very much appreciated, even though I don't get a chance to reply to you all personally. Secondly, some people have asked how long this will be. It's 10 chapters long. Also, the show they are in is totally made up and not at all real. It's just something that came from my brain.

... ... ...

He walks into rehearsal after spending most of his evening with Kurt trying to explain that nothing happened between he and Rachel. You know, nothing but a fuckton of hot making out. Whatever. Kurt doesn't need to know that shit. It's none of his business and Puck doesn't feel like sharing. Thing is, Kurt has, like, creepy spidey senses about these things and totally called Puck on it as soon as they saw one another. It's fine, though, since Puck knows Kurt won't say shit to anyone or he'll lose his job. Guy's gotta make sure Puck gets good press, and while hooking up with his costar _could_ make for good stories in some outlets, the rest of them would have a fucking field day and start a bunch of shit he doesn't want to deal with. He doesn't want to put Rachel through it, even if he still kinda thinks she'd give her left kidney (or whatever) to have her picture on the front of _People._

Anyway, she's wearing those skinny jeans and the grey top he likes a fucking lot, and she bites her bottom lip and looks at him from across the room and he wants to blow off rehearsal like they did yesterday and see if he can get past second base with her.

He's a fucking superstar. He hasn't had to run bases in years. Basically he stands at home plate and waits until someone struts towards him. The fact that he's even still interested in this girl probably says a lot more than he wants to think about right now.

Their stage direction is stupid for this scene and so he spends the whole day on the opposite side of the room from her, watching her watching him. She thinks she's being subtle, but she's dumb and she's not. She keeps giving him these little looks, and whether she means to or not, she looks sexy as fuck when she runs her fingers through the ends of her hair or laughs or, you know, just stands there and ignores him.

He's in trouble and he knows it.

He always knew it'd be a woman who'd fuck up this sweet situation he has where he never gives a fuck and just goes where his manager and publicist tell him to.

He catches her after, when she's tucking her notes into her bag and standing with her back to him. All the looks, all the gestures, all the teasing she may or may not have even known she was doing, it's made him fucking nuts and he just wants to be with her right now. Like, _with_ her.

He slides up behind her and leans down to speak into her ear, careful not to touch her.

"You're trying to drive me crazy and it's fucking working."

She just barely looks at him over her shoulder. "Is it?"

Fucking tease. He knew it. She just admitted she wanted this reaction from him. She's awesome for that, spending her whole day trying to make him want her even more. He likes this little game of theirs, but he needs it to be over.

"Come to my place."

She nods and tells him she'll meet him there. He kinda digs that she knows they can't be seen together all the time and stuff.

When she steps off the elevator into his suite, he makes sure to lock everything and give them some privacy. He doesn't exactly need Kurt bursting in here and witnessing anything (anyone) going down. God, she's sexy. She'd probably never talk to him again if he didn't prevent someone from seeing her on her knees or something. He's getting a little ahead of himself, here. She doesn't even have her bag off her shoulder yet. He can help speed things along. He grabs the strap and tugs it down her arm, sets it on the couch and puts his hands on her hips from behind her. She sweeps her hair aside and bares her neck to him, and it's like she's asking for it. Perfect.

"You suck for doing that to me," he says. It's a lie but he doesn't care. She'll probably be able to tell anyway. He brings his hand up and slides it down the side of her neck and over her shoulder. "You look so fucking hot today."

"Thanks," she breathes out. She angles her head a little and he knows she wants him to kiss her or touch her or maybe take her clothes off and worship her like he wants to.

He moves his hand across her stomach, then up to cover her breast through her shirt. She takes a slow breath and he lets his lip brush across her neck. "There are so many things I wanna do to you right now," he tells her. "You don't even know."

She turns around, takes his hands in hers and starts pulling him towards the bedroom.

"Tell me," she says, looking at him through her lashes.

Jesus. She's amazing.

"Why don't I show you?"

She laughs a little and lays down as soon as her knees hit the mattress. He moves so he's on top of her and finally kisses her. "I'm still not going to sleep with you."

Fuck. Why not? What the fuck is her deal? There's no way she's a virgin and it's not like he's an idiot who, like, _has_ something or whatever. He's clean and safe and that's what condoms are for, too. He doesn't even care. He just wants to be inside her and she's saying no. Obviously he's going to respect that or whatever, but that doesn't mean he has to like it or understand it.

"Why?" he asks before he can stop himself.

She bends her knees and draws him closer. Not his fault he starts thinking of all the things he can do without having sex with her.

"Because I don't think we should yet," she says quietly. She sounds nervous or whatever, but he doesn't know why. He's laying on top of her and getting harder by the minute and it's not like he's going to tell her to leave.

"Fine," he says. He thinks it's stupid and they should just get naked, but he's not going to voice that opinion or she will leave. "Can I do other stuff?" She laughs and looks up at him. "'Cause there's...Damn, baby, I can do other stuff."

She kisses him hard and then her tongue is pushing against his lips, so he takes that as a yes.

... ... ...

So she didn't even mean to let it get that far, with his hand slipping into her jeans and panties, and hers pushing down his jeans and boxers, but once it started happening she was powerless to stop it and didn't even want to. Apparently he's incredibly talented with everything he does, because he had her coming undone in mere minutes. She didn't appreciate the way he laughed and teased her about it, but he stopped basically immediately after she pushed her hand against him through his jeans. And for some reason he said he wanted to get her off again, 'no strings', so she laughed and let him.

Now she's laying on his bed and he's in the living room on his phone with one of his handlers. She's cleaned herself up but she can't help but feel like she wants to be naked. If she takes anything off and he looks at her like she's assuming he'd look at her, she'll be having sex with him within minutes. It's already difficult enough since he's walking around without his shirt on and she's very aware that if he can bring her off that easily with his hand, his mouth would be better, and sex would maybe melt her.

She knows she'll find out, but if she gives in today he'll have won. Won what, she doesn't know. She also doesn't know why she's made it into a competition.

Ian's talking his ear off about doing Letterman again or some shit, and Puck'll do it, for sure, but he doesn't actually give a fuck when there's a hot woman in his bed who he's almost positive is approximately a day and a half from fucking him into a coma. He feels like he's in high school again, just dying for more from her than she's currently willing to give. He didn't think he'd get a hand job from her, but it wasn't like he was gonna stop her from putting her hand on him and whispering some shit in his ear he didn't even know she was capable of. Like, when she said, "Tell me how you like it," he thought he was gonna embarrass himself. And when she licked his earlobe and said she liked how he felt in her hand he legit could have died.

So yeah, sexy girl in his bed or Letterman. Not really a tough call, is it?

"Dude, I gotta go," Puck says when he realizes walking away from her and answering his phone was a really fucking dumb idea. He steps back into the bedroom and she's on her side on his bed in her clothes, smiling at him. "Yeah, yeah. Whatever. Talk to Kurt. I'm...Fuck you. Bye."

He drops his phone onto the end of the bed and puts his hands on his hips, watching her. She just looks at him and he's really digging this, this her at his place thing.

"That was rude of you," she says.

"Are you kidding me?" he asks, laughing. "Dude would legit sell my body if it meant more money in his bank account."

She laughs and rolls onto her back when he gets onto the bed. "Don't let him," she says quietly, slipping her arms around his waist and moving them up his back once he's on top of her.

"Why?" he asks, nipping at her lips. "You want my body?"

"Shut up," she giggles. "Maybe."

"Fuck," he sighs. "You always make guys wait for it?"

She seems to think about it for a second, then says, "Yes," and he totally believes her.

"Wanna get some food?" he asks. She shakes her head and he hates it. It's not often he hears the word no, especially from women. "Why?"

"I should get home," she says. She's not trying to move and he's probably not going to let her until she makes him. "We both know my roommates worry." He rolls his eyes. "Today was...It was incredible."

He presses himself against her because just laying on top of her like this has him half-hard. Rachel likes it, the weight of him on her. She'd lay like this all night if it wasn't so sexually frustrating and irresponsible. She adores how much he seems to want her, how close he likes to be to her. And she loves that he's still interested even though they're not having sex. Of course, it's just been _this_ for a few days, but that doesn't matter. It's why she doesn't jump into physical relationships in the first place. She needs something deeper than that and she's not afraid to go through a bunch of men until she finds the one willing to wait.

She is wholly surprised that Puck is, and loves that she's starting to see the side of him all those amazing lyrics come from.

He kisses her at the door, tells her she sucks for leaving, and says he'll see her tomorrow.

She needs to talk to Santana about all this or she's going to go crazy.

She legitimately likes him, and it's scary because he's popular and famous, and most importantly, _leaving._

... ... ...

Rachel embarrasses herself when they're rehearsing a kiss and she moans because he makes it a little too real and moves his thumb just below her ear like he's already learned she loves. He looks smug when he pulls away after, and she knows she's blushing, and they have to start the scene over because Rena isn't supposed to be blushing at this point and Ben isn't supposed to look so proud. Patrick isn't impressed. Rachel doesn't care.

She thinks she and Puck are becoming their characters and it scares the hell out of her.

He asks her if she wants to do something after rehearsal (whispers it in her ear during a scene, and she doesn't appreciate it) and she shakes her head. She has to explain it to him after, and she lies.

"I should spend some time at home. I feel like a stranger to Santana and Finn right now."

He looks like he knows she's bullshitting him.

He does.

"Right. 'Cause it's not like you've known them forever or whatever." She just looks at him and he grins and steps closer. He doesn't care that they're in a room full of people who don't and probably shouldn't know they're...more than just costars. "You sure this isn't 'cause of what happened yesterday?"

"It's not!" she answers quickly, eyes wide.

She's a big, fat liar. Of course it's about yesterday. If she'd stayed, he would have gotten her out of her clothes and she knows it as well as he does. That probably means that she knows if they hang out today, he's going to try again. Of course he is. He's dying to sleep with her and she's making it as difficult as possible on him.

He's not crazy enough (not anymore) to think that just because he's kissed her a few times and gotten her off that she'll just give in and strip down for him. He likes that she's not just giving it up. Kind of. She's different (way different) than most of the girls he meets, and that's cool.

"C'mon. We'll go to dinner or something," he says. He drags his knuckle along the skin between her jeans and shirt, and she looks at his hand.

"What about the press?" she asks.

He shrugs. "Don't care."

She laughs. She knows he's not exactly telling the truth, and that Kurt hates it when he has this nonchalant attitude towards his public image. She knows Kurt has a tough job and she doesn't want to make it any more difficult.

"Why don't you come over?" She looks up at him and he's grinning a little too lecherously. "For dinner."

"Can I eat..."

"No," she laughs. She knows exactly what he was going to say there. "You can have dinner with me and my roommates." He makes a face she doesn't like, and she pulls away from him. "Fine. You don't have to."

"No, I didn't say..." He sighs. "Santana hates me and Finn'll hurt me if I touch you."

"She doesn't and he won't."

"Whatever."

"If you don't want to, just tell me," she says. She crosses her arms and gives him a shitty look. "It was just a suggestion."

Truthfully, she's worrying he just wants sex now. She's thought all along - well, for the past few days - that he wasn't in it just for that, but now he's making her second guess things and she hates him for that.

He rolls his eyes and drops his arm around her shoulder, pulls her with him towards the door. "Let's go."

She tries not to smile too widely and laughs when he starts telling her all the possible scenarios where Santana could hurt him when Rachel's not looking.

It's really not all that bad. When they get there, there's no one else home, so he figures that means it's okay to feel Rachel up in the kitchen while she's prepping dinner, and he must be right because she totally lets him. Then she makes him peel potatoes and makes a joke about how he probably never cooks for himself and he shoots that shit down immediately because he loves to cook and he's actually pretty good at it. He says he'll cook for her at his place sometime and the look on her face lets him know she's wondering when, because he doesn't live in New York and won't be staying after the show's done.

She'd almost laugh at how nervous he looks when Finn and Santana get home. He stands and shakes Finn's hand, asks Santana how she's doing, and then rolls his eyes when Rachel tries not to laugh at him. Rachel's friends pour some wine, and Puck answers questions about the show and how things are going. They make small talk, and it's really hard to focus on having a conversation with Santana when Rachel looks like she does. But he manages to make it through the whole meal without telling them to fuck off so he can get at her, so he's pretty sure that's a win.

Finn and Santana offer to clean up. He's pretty stoked, since he and Rachel (mostly Rachel) did all the cooking.

She sits down with him on the sofa and watches as he takes another drink from his glass. She can't stop herself from putting her hand on his upper arm, touching him through his shirt. He glances at her and sets his hand on her thigh until she pulls her legs up onto the sofa and turns her body towards his.

"They don't hate you," she says needlessly. He just nods. "I can't decide whether that's natural, or a huge surprise."

"Can't really be both, I guess," he says, laughs when she shrugs her shoulder. "I should go soon."

Tomorrow is their first day in the theater. It's not quite a dress rehearsal, but their sets are completed and they're going to work through the opening act and start to perfect the audio.

She wants him to stay. It's been an absurdly long time since she slept next to anyone, and she knows well enough by now that he's a nice body to lay beside. He's warm and solid. She also thinks that if she tells him any of this, he'll have a field day with it. She thinks, too, that if she invited him into her bed for the night, he'd most likely end up inside her. She might even beg him.

That's all really a very bad idea.

He leaves after another short while, and Rachel lets him kiss her by the elevator right before it comes. Santana spends the rest of the evening asking if the two are dating, and Rachel refuses to answer, mostly because she doesn't know what to say.

... ... ...

She's currently laying on her back on his bed with his hand pressing against her through her panties. It's most likely the worst ever time to mention it, especially since she's already 'tended to his needs' and he's now returning the favour, but she's been thinking for the past week, however long this has been going on, and she needs to tell him the conclusion she came to.

"We shouldn't sleep together."

She's surprised by how breathless she sounds. It doesn't help that he stops what he's doing but leaves his hand there. She arches her hips and he still doesn't pull his hand away.

He's kind of having a hard time comprehending this. Maybe it's because he just came less than five minutes ago, or because he's currently feeling just how wet she is.

But he knows he disagrees.

"Ever?" It's the first thing he can think of, so it's what he says.

"No, that's not..." She squirms under him, closes her legs a little. It traps his hand and moves it a little, which feels far too good right now. "Puck, come on. I can't think when you're doing that."

"Maybe you shouldn't be trying." He kisses the side of her mouth, shifts his hand a bit. She pushes at his elbow though, and he's not a dick so he pulls away. He probably shouldn't, but he pops his fingers into his mouth for a second. Not the first time, won't be the last. Hopefully won't be the last. "What are you talking about?"

"We can't sleep together," she states. She sits up a little, leans back against his pillows more. She can feel herself, wet between her thighs and wound very tightly. His pants are still open, since they were in a rush when they stumbled into his place and she didn't bother taking them off him.

"Why not?" He sounds angry.

"Because we have a job to do. I can't have our sexual relationship interfering with what we do. Our on stage chemistry is vitally important to the show, and with curtain in just a matter of weeks, I can't afford to upset the balance."

So, he's kind of still thinking about how warm she feels and what it's like to have her come apart around his fingers. They haven't done anything other than that, but they've been doing _that_ pretty much every day.

Basically all he's hearing is that it'll _just_ be _that_ until...

"Until when?" he asks. It's pretty important.

"Until the show ends."

"That's months from now," he reminds her needlessly. She just looks nervous.

And look, he really likes her. He likes her a lot. He just knows how much he _loves_ sex. He can't live without it, probably, and the last little while, since he met her, he's been with a couple people, but it's mostly been just her since before they even kissed. She's funny as hell and he has a good time with her, but he's not a 13 year old and he can't survive on handjobs alone until she decides to spread her legs and let him in. Maybe it sounds bad, but it's true.

And he doesn't exactly trust himself to still be with her and not fuck around if he's not getting it from her. He wouldn't want to hurt her or anything, but if she's not giving it up he knows he'd just look somewhere else. That's just what he does. He's not proud of it, but it is what it is.

She can tell by the look on his face that she's going to leave here today alone and their relationship will go back to being strictly professional. She wants to kick herself for getting involved with him in the first place. She should have known, should have seen it coming. Not to mention, they're adults and there's no way she could have expected him to abstain after they started dating. Plus, he doesn't take the theater as seriously as she does, so he probably doesn't care much about things like palpable on-stage chemistry.

She gets off his bed and smoothes her dress down over her thighs, as though doing that will make it so he doesn't know what's underneath.

"I should have known better," she says, running her fingers through her hair.

"Rachel."

"It's okay," she tells him, heading for the door. "It's really...It's not a big deal."

He gets off the bed, and she can hear him zip his pants and buckle his belt as he follows her through his suite. "I like you, okay?" he says. He sounds sincere and she wants to believe him. "But you're asking...It's months."

"I know," she almost whispers. She looks to the floor, picks up her bag from beside the elevator and pushes the button.

He doesn't like this, her just leaving. She's obviously upset, and he feels like an asshole because of it. But at least he thinks she understands why, so that's something, he guesses.

"I'm not trying to be a dick."

"I know," she says again. She forces a smile. He can tell how fake it is, but he doesn't want to call her on it. "I should have stopped this before it started."

She leaves before he can ask her what she meant by that, because if he was hearing her right it sounded like there was something else hidden there under the words.

... ... ...

She's not going to cry. She's not a teenager who just got brushed off by the first boy who kissed her. She's had broken hearts before and this doesn't even compare. He's not even in the top five on the list of men who've hurt her.

She's more disappointed than anything. Pissed off maybe, but mostly just disappointed.

She thought they had something - maybe they do - but he's not willing to wait a bit and see what it could be away from the glow of their names on the marquis. That's fine. She didn't honestly believe he'd think her idea was as brilliant as she does. She'd expected a little bit more of a conversation than that, to be honest.

She doesn't want to be mad at him, because she has to see him every day and they're almost into dress rehearsals. She needs to be professional and get rid of any hint of bitterness.

She can start that tomorrow.

She buys a bottle of wine on her way home from his hotel, and opens it as soon as she's inside her apartment. She knows Finn and Santana are already worried about her. She didn't say a word to either of them when she came in, and she doesn't say anything to then before she goes to her room and closes the door. She contemplates counting down the seconds before Santana comes in, but she strips out of her dress instead, pulls on an old tee shirt and tucks her legs under the covers of her bed.

She's just barely gotten comfortable when there's a knock at the door and Santana peers inside the room. "Can I come in?" Rachel wants to say no, but she doesn't want to hurt Santana's feelings. (They don't come out often, but they are there.) "Are you okay?" Santana asks once she has the door closed again.

"I'm fine."

"Rachel." Santana tilts her head disbelievingly. "What happened?"

"It's nothing, really," she promises. She plasters on a smile, but Santana doesn't seem to be buying it.

"Did something happen at work?" she asks. Then she looks at Rachel again and her face changes, goes softer or something. "With Puck?"

"I don't want to talk about it."

"Rachel."

"Santana!" Rachel shouts. She never raises her voice, because it's rude and usually unnecessary, not to mention bad for her voice. She sighs. "I said I don't want to talk about it."

Santana takes a breath and stands up. "Whatever. You know where I am if you change your mind," she says.

Rachel drinks half a glass of wine, pulls the covers up over her head and tries to get some sleep.

She's just ended things with an amazing man for what she thinks is a good reason but he definitely doesn't, and now she's yelled at her best friend and probably alienated her, too. Not her best day.

Thing is? She's really only angry at herself.


	6. Chapter 6

The first day's really fucking weird, because Rachel will hardly look him in the eye. Considering they're supposed to have this intense chemistry in the play, that's not really a good thing. He doesn't call her on it, though, doesn't tell her that they were doing just fine before she decided to end things. And that's what she did. He doesn't know why, really, but he's not totally buying her bullshit excuse. If that's the only reason she didn't want to fuck him, then she's really weird and kind of a loser.

He still wants her, but whatever. Loser.

The second day, he's finishing his coffee and Dasha, their costume designer, has just asked him some questions. Rachel walks up to him looking nervous, but like she's trying to hide the fact that she's nervous.

"I'm sorry about yesterday," she says, looking up at him. "It was awkward, and I'm sorry."

"Whatever. It's fine."

"No," she insists. She's all serious now. "No, we have to be perfect."

He looks at her like she's nuts. Sometimes he wonders what else she has riding on this show, because she's so fucking attached to it it's ridiculous. "Okay."

"Okay."

She smiles at him, then walks away. He doesn't know what the hell her deal is. He really wants to ask.

She'd never tell him anyway, so he keeps the question to himself.

... ... ...

She's got two days off, which is practically unheard of. She decides to go shopping after rehearsal, goes to her favourite boutiques and spends money she shouldn't on things she doesn't need. But the beret is really cute and those burgundy suede shoes are gorgeous. And she needed new jeans, so that was a good buy, but the navy silk dress she buys is definitely a non-essential.

She doesn't care. It makes her feel better and pulls her out of the funk she's been in since things with Puck ended. She shouldn't have been in one in the first place. (She shouldn't have been with him in the first place, either.)

She still hasn't told Santana, though she knows her roommates have speculated and probably come to the conclusion that Puck's the reasoning behind her mood over the past week. And Puck must not have told Kurt, because she receives a text from him mentioning that he hasn't seen her in a few days and that should be rectified. She really likes Kurt, so she hopes this whole stupid mess doesn't affect their very new friendship. Given the way he talks about Puck sometimes, like he's just another client and Kurt merely tolerates him, she thinks they'll be okay. Obviously she knows the two are friends, but she thinks Kurt can be objective enough to keep things compartmentalized.

After her little shopping trip, she picks up a bottle of Grey Goose (because she feels like it) and the ingredients to make her signature homemade pasta. She buys fresh bread and gets some flowers, and the guy at the flower stand flirts with her. She lets him, because he's gorgeous and she feels like she needs the attention. He asks her for her name, and she gives it to him even though she knows it's just a gateway to him asking for her number. He does. She considers giving him a fake, but that's just rude. She says she doesn't give her number out (she doesn't, so it's not a lie) but that maybe she'll see him around. He gives her the flowers for free, winks at her and she lets herself feel pretty special, even though she's sure he does some variation of this routine several times a day.

Santana and Finn are home when she gets there, and she greets them and asks how their days went. She mixes up martinis and serves them before starting on dinner, and her friends notice the change in her demeanor, obviously, but aren't mentioning it.

A few drinks into the evening, Santana must know Rachel's defenses are down, because she bluntly asks, "So what the hell happened with you and Puck?" and Rachel knows she should give a proper answer.

"Nothing," she says. It's the truth - or some convoluted version of it - but Santana rolls her eyes. "We decided it was a bad idea."

"You mean _you_ decided it was a bad idea."

Rachel sighs. "Well, yes. It was my decision."

"Why?" Finn asks, like it makes no sense whatsoever.

"You guys know all my reasons," Rachel says. "I don't get involved with costars, and I never should have gotten involved with him in the first place. It was a bad idea from the start."

"Except you wanted to," Finn points out. Santana says his name like she's trying to get him to shut up. "You like him, Rachel, and you're taking yourself out of the game for some reason."

"Because this show is important and I don't want it to suffer," she counters.

Santana tilts her head. Rachel assumes she's not going to like what comes next. "If you keep using that excuse, you'll..."

Rachel narrows her eyes. "I'll what?"

"You always find reasons not to date people," Santana says seriously. Maybe it's the truth, but Rachel doesn't have time to mess around with people she knows she has no future with. (And really, maybe that's the whole underlying issue with Puck.) "You're going to pick the wood pile over, and then you'll be left with the crooked stick."

Rachel can't help the laugh that bubbles up and leaves her lips. Finn's laughing, too, and then Santana joins in and they're all completely losing it as they sit at their kitchen table with their plates emptied in front of them. It feels good to laugh and she hasn't been doing enough of it lately, if she's being honest. Puck can make her laugh so hard, usually at him, or at the ridiculous things he says to try and get her to take her clothes off.

It'd be easier to stick to her guns about this being a bad idea if she could stop thinking about him every minute and a half.

"Maybe the crooked stick isn't so bad," she gets out, wiping the tears from the corners of her eyes.

"This conversation just took a bad turn," Finn comments. He stands and clears their plates while the girls giggle.

As soon as he's out of earshot, Santana looks at Rachel and says, "I just don't want you to miss out on something."

"You just want your hundred dollars," Rachel says, brow raised.

"Rach," Santana starts, shaking her head, "you know it's not about that."

Rachel sighs. She does know that. Her best friends suddenly telling her she's being ridiculous is not helping her at all right now, even if she knows they're trying.

... ... ...

He's thinking about her a lot, and that probably means he misses her or something, and he hates that. He doesn't like missing people. The only people he lets himself miss are his mom and his sister. He learned as a kid not to miss people, because missing them just sets you up to think they're coming back, and sometimes they just don't. If he leaves New York and doesn't look back, he doesn't want to have to wonder about this woman like he's wondering about her now.

She's really not all that special.

Except you know what? She really is.

He likes that she doesn't buy into all the hype around him, and that she pretty much ignores the gossip. Yeah, she asked if he really had a threesome with the Olsen twins, but she was smiling and he thinks she already knew the answer (_no_) before she even asked the question. And she doesn't let him get away with anything. As much as he hated the whole not sleeping with her thing, there's something cool about her not just spreading her legs for him the minute he had her on her back. But yeah, not spreading her legs _at all_? Sucks. Fuck, he wants her. It's messed up. For a few days he thinks that's just because he can't have her, because she's taken it off the table or whatever. Then she's laughing with one of their castmates and he thinks she's fucking _beautiful_ and he just really _wants_ her.

He's sitting in his suite with Kurt, and they're basically doing fuck all. He's got his guitar across his lap, but he's not playing anything, really, just messing around. Kurt's sitting there with his laptop open and his totally-not-prescription 'reading' glasses on, looking at something for whatever the fuck.

"You think she thinks I just wanted sex?" He doesn't specify who, 'cause it's pretty fucking obvious. Kurt doesn't seem fazed.

"Yes."

"Really?" He looks over at Kurt and the guy's still staring at his screen.

"Yes."

"You think there's anything I can do right now to prove I don't?"

"No."

Puck is getting pissed. He's asking for advice here and getting dick all in return. "You could help me."

"Help you bed your costar?" Kurt laughs. He takes off his glasses and looks over. "Believe it or not, where you put your penis is kind of my biggest concern. I'm very okay with you not making my job a nightmare."

Puck scowls. "So I should just fuck some random girl instead of the one I want, just because it'll make your life easier?" he asks angrily.

Kurt laughs and says, "Aww," all patronizingly. "You say that like you have discriminating taste when it comes to women."

He doesn't need or want to hear this anymore. This is bullshit. He wants Rachel and he can't have her, and the really ironic thing is that he had his hand in ending it because she won't sleep with him, but now he doesn't want to sleep with someone else. Well, he wants to, but part of him thinks that if it gets back to her somehow - which it probably would - any and all hope of ever being with her will be destroyed.

"I can sleep with whoever I want," he says, because Kurt's making it sound like he has any say in this shit, and he straight up doesn't.

Kurt laughs and goes back to whatever he's been working on. "You've proven that a hundred times over."

Puck stands up and sets his guitar on its stand. "You know, I don't need this shit," he says angrily.

He doesn't explain anything, and Kurt doesn't ask him to. He just grabs his wallet and his phone and heads for the elevator. He needs a drink and a blow job, if he's being really honest with himself.

... ... ...

He goes out and gets what he wants. It feels good for the obvious reasons. It doesn't feel good for some pretty obvious reasons, too.

... ... ...

She walks into rehearsal and notices Puck's not looking at her. He usually does. He'll smile or nod at her, at least let on he knows her and at one point liked her enough to kiss her. Today he's ignoring her, and she shouldn't care. She should welcome it, actually. But it stings and she hates it.

It's their first proper dress rehearsal, and the first she notices him looking at her, he's looking her up and down as she wears the little denim shorts her character's wearing in the first few scenes. His eyes are on her legs, so he doesn't see her noticing. She decides she likes his attention (this is not a revelation), so she flexes her calf and turns so he can see her from behind. When she became this shameless, she has no idea. (Actually, she probably always has been, but she's not willing to think too hard about it when she's trying to find her mark on the stage and look adorable at the same time.)

He eyes her chest during their first scene together, and she has to admit, he really makes that white tee shirt work. She's seen him in similar things, obviously, but it feels different today. See? This sexual tension between them is incredible for the show, for what they have to portray on stage, and it wouldn't be there if they'd seen one another naked.

He has to put his hand on her hip and try to kiss her in one scene. She almost forgets to pull away like her character is supposed to. Patrick yells at her and tells them to take it from the top.

She ignores the little smirk on Puck's face, because that's just not helping matters in the slightest.

... ... ...

He doesn't know what the hell Ian's doing in New York again. They're less than a week away from 'curtain' and he's really fucking nervous, so he's trying hard to just chill and not freak out over the fact that everyone's going to be judging him like fucking...judges. He's never acted before, and he knows he's good at it, but he's pretty sure that, like always, people are just going to be waiting for him to fuck up so they can talk about it on morning 'news' shows and write about it in gossip rags. It's kind of not fair, but it comes with the job, so what can he do?

Still, when he walks into his suite and Ian's sitting there on the couch, talking on the phone and tossing a baseball up and down, Puck's got to wonder what's going on. Last they talked, Ian was coming in an hour before the first show and leaving right after.

"Good news," Ian says, standing from his spot. He ends his call without saying goodbye, so Puck knows it was probably just the guy's wife or something.

Puck's pretty damn exhausted from his day, so he flops down on the couch and closes his eyes. "What's that?"

"You're going on tour."

Puck opens one eye. Okay, now he's kind of interested. "Yeah?"

"Dave Matthews Band. 35 shows, cross country," Ian says.

Puck doesn't totally know how to react, because he knows DMB tours all the fucking time since forever and still manages to sell out every freaking city. This would mean huge stadiums, more fans, tons of exposure, and definite credibility within the industry. He doesn't need anyone to tell him that. He's never really been able to write all that well on the road, but he'll just have to try harder if he's gotta finish songs for a record while he's on a massive tour like this.

"Awesome."

Ian stares at him. "Awesome? Fuck yeah, it is." Puck laughs. "What the hell are you doing? Pack your shit! We need to start rehearsals."

"Wait. What?" He sits up and looks at Ian like he's nuts. "The show starts in three days."

"Yeah, and you have an understudy." Puck narrows his eyes. He doesn't know when the hell he became so defensive over this show, but he is, and he kind of wants to punch Ian in the goddamn face for this shit. "That's what they're for, aren't they?"

"For bailing on my contract? No," Puck argues.

"People get out of their contracts all the time. And whatever. It's some guy who'd give his left nut to be on the stage. You're doing him a favour."

Puck stands up and walks past Ian. He honestly can't look at the guy any longer without being seriously pissed. "I'm not walking away. Fuck it. Fuck Dave Matthews. Fuck the tour. I've headlined shows and I don't need to open for anyone."

And yeah, maybe he sounds like a brat, but that's mostly true, now that he thinks about it. He doesn't need to open a show for a jam band when he's had the spotlight to himself and the good catering and not had to have a short, useless soundcheck. He's not going back to that. He's got a ton of fans as it is, and he's not gonna lie and say he isn't kind of looking forward to getting a few just from doing this show. Broadway people don't all suck.

"Are you hearing yourself?" Ian asks, following him into the kitchen. "This is huge!"

"You're the one who wanted me to do this show in the first place," Puck points out. "You practically fucking forced me. I'm not bailing on it right now. Even I'm not that much of a dick."

Ian holds his arms out. "Fuck it! I am."

Puck laughs bitterly. "Yeah, I know."

"Puck." Ian leans on the counter between them and takes a deep breath. "I can't let you say no to this tour. I can't even tell you how much money it'll make. Think about it. Ticket sales. Merchandise. Album sales."

"I don't care."

"You're acting like a fucking 10 year old, and you're smarter than this. You don't understand what you're doing."

Puck thinks about it for a second. He doesn't even want to think of the look on Patrick's face if he walks away. He may not like the guy, but it'd suck to fuck him over like that. Not to mention the rest of the cast, who he knows have put their entire lives into the production.

And then there's Rachel. Fuck, she'd kill him. She might literally _kill_ him. He knows she doesn't like working with Perry, the understudy. Puck can't blame her; guy's a total jackass. He thinks the sun shines out his ass and doesn't seem to understand that since he's the _understudy_, he really can't be all that perfect.

Puck remembers that day in her bedroom - the day she first really kissed him - when she talked to him in that quiet voice and told him she just wanted it so badly and never wanted to lose it now that she has it. He can't do that to her, leave and fuck the whole production up. He knows enough about it to know that if he left, attention would be on that instead of how fucking incredible she is. _He can't do that to her._ He may not be sleeping with her, and maybe they're not even really talking, but he likes her and respects her enough to want her to get what she wants.

(Maybe he likes her a little more than he's letting on.)

"Get the fuck out of my apartment, Ian," Puck says. He's not joking and Ian just shakes his head.

"You're making a mistake."

Puck shrugs his shoulder. "Whatever. _You_ work for _me_, remember?"

Ian looks really pissed (he doesn't like to be reminded of that shit, ever) but he's back on the phone before the elevator even closes. Puck sighs and hopes to god none of this backfires on him.

He really needs to kick ass in this show. He knows no one expected him to even get through the first week of rehearsals, let alone make it to opening night. He's never liked people doubting him, and he's always felt the need to prove them wrong. Sometimes he falls short of it, but whatever. He's got a lot riding on it this time, and he doesn't want to fail. For the first time in a long time he's had to work _hard_ at something, and it kind of feels good.

... ... ...

His dedication is admirable.

And attractive.

That's kind of the whole problem with this situation.

She thinks that as soon as you break up with someone, they should immediately become less attractive so you don't have to suffer through wanting to have sex with them against the nearest flat surface, with or without an audience of your castmates in the same space.

And okay, they didn't really _break up_, but that's because they were never really together in the first place. And no, she doesn't know what it's like to be with him, but she's certainly thought about it enough.

Santana keeps making fun of her for it, and if Rachel wanted even more ridicule she'd admit that _she'd_ pay Santana double her money for just one really, _really_ good night with him.

She's completely losing it.

She always gets a little crazy before opening night.

He's talking with the musical director and she overhears him say something about cues and subtleties in the music and all those things he's never really mentioned before, not when she was around. He laughs from his stomach and she admires his breath control, and then he pats Serge on the shoulder and actually _thanks_ him for his hard work, and honestly, there's a split second where she thinks it's love.

Then he turns his back and she checks out his ass for about the millionth time in her life. It should be illegal to look that good.

She always gets very tense before opening night, too.

"Ready, Ohio?" he asks, coming up behind her when she's selecting a few carrot sticks from the tray on the table backstage.

She smiles, closes her eyes for a moment before turning around to face him. "Are _you_ ready, Superstar?"

"Oh, shit. Call me that again," he says. She laughs quietly and looks down as she shakes her head. "I'm kind of really fucking nervous actually." She looks up, eyes wide, and he sighs. "Don't tell anyone."

She giggles (what is she, _eight_?) and says, "Don't worry." He winks at her, so her stomach basically turns to mush and she can't eat anything, so she puts her plate down. "I'm nervous, too."

"Shut up," he scoffs. She doesn't know what to say to that. "You're amazing. Don't give me that shit. You know everyone's buying tickets to see you."

She might be blushing, but if she thinks about it, she'll blush harder. "Yes, I'm sure that has nothing to do with the fact that my costar is an international celebrity."

"Whatever," he mumbles. She furrows her brow, trying to figure out what she just said to make him sound like that again, like the guy he was when he first showed up to rehearsals and had no respect for the theater. "Maybe I'm overrated."

"That's ridiculous!" she cries. He's not looking at her, and she doesn't like it. "I don't like this conversation anymore. It's one thing to have pre-show jitters, but it's another to act like you're not good enough when everyone knows you are."

"No one thinks that."

"I do," she says insistently. He rubs his hand over the back of his neck. She can tell he doesn't believe her, which is shocking since he's got the biggest ego of anyone in all of Manhattan, and she's including herself in that. She's not going to stand here and listen to this any longer. "Enjoy your day off tomorrow. Our schedule for the next several months is going to be grueling."

She turns and leaves, and he says something under his breath that she doesn't catch, but it sounds something like, "You're nuts," and so she ignores him.

When they started all this, she was one of the people who doubted his abilities. Not musically. Musically, he's amazing. His voice is wonderful for the show and the material. She knows he's never had an acting lesson in his life, and he refused to let the company pay for a coach. He's created a character on his own and he's delivering lines perfectly, with the maturity of a seasoned stage actor. He's got incredible stage presence and she thinks he'd have chemistry with a doorknob, if anyone dared to test that theory.

She thought she was his biggest fan before she even met him, but now that she knows him, it's terrifying to think she's the only fan who knows him at all. She doesn't mean that in a stalkery way, either.

When she gets home, she puts his latest album on for the first time since she met him. She opens a bottle of wine and has a couple glasses, listens to his lyrics and falls asleep sometime around 10:30 trying not to let herself wonder if maybe she's important enough for him to write about.


	7. Chapter 7

"Get out."

"Get up."

"Fuck you."

"Must we go through this every morning?"

"You wake me up at the ass crack of dawn every fucking day. So yeah." He's not happy. It's barely fucking light out and Kurt's tapping his stupid shoe or something, tugging at the blankets that are nice and warm and keeping him covered and not naked for all to see.

"It's 10:30," Kurt sighs. "God, you've been spending too much time in the theater."

"Shut up," Puck mumbles into his pillow. His bed is warm and Kurt's a pain in the ass. "What?"

"It's 10:30," Kurt repeats, like that alone is reason to get up. "You should be doing something other than this."

"Got 'ny ideas?"

"Shower? Shave? Generally make yourself presentable to humans?"

"Later," Puck says. He closes his eyes again and he's very close to being asleep when the covers are pulled back and he's chilled through with his naked ass on display for his very gay publicist. If this was the first or even 50th time, he'd be weirded out. "Hey! _Fuck off_."

"This isn't a rock tour. You turned that down, remember? Kudos, by the way, and I actually have an inkling of respect for you now," Kurt says. Puck rolls his eyes, takes a deep breath so he doesn't end up losing it and beating the kid. "You can get out of bed before 1:00 in the afternoon and actually do something productive."

"Rachel told me to enjoy my day," Puck says. He realizes he's pouting, but he doesn't give even one fuck. "This is how I wanna do it."

It sounds like Kurt's smirking when he says, "Oh. Well, if _Rachel_ told you to," but Puck doesn't want to look and see.

Kurt leaves and Puck can't get back to sleep, 'cause now he's trying to figure out why the fuck he even said that in the first place, dropped her name like it was his to drop.

... ... ...

She nearly barrels into Kurt. She's doing pre show shopping, like she's always done before the open of a new production. It's a silly tradition and her bank account hates her for it, but she goes to all the best boutiques and checks out the latest gowns and buys one. She's worn each one she's purchased, but she never does it with an event in mind. She wore a gorgeous Burberry to last year's Tonys, and the year before that, when she was still practically a nobody but got an invite anyway for a small role in a large show, she wore a BCBG she still loves.

She's just stepping out of Dior when she almost runs into him and he scowls before realizing it's her and hugging her instead.

"What are you doing? You should be resting!" he tells her. "Lord knows that's what _he's_ doing."

She laughs despite herself. It's the middle of the afternoon and she has a vision (not entirely terrible) of Puck in his apartment with jeans on and a guitar across his lap or something. Whether or not she's wrong really isn't important.

"Is he okay?" she asks abruptly, instead of answering his question. He looks at her oddly. "Yesterday when we were talking, he just seemed...I don't know."

"Probably just the tour thing. And he gets nervous, even though he tries to act like he doesn't," Kurt says, shrugging his shoulder.

She laughs a little. She wonders what it means that Kurt thinks Puck wouldn't have copped to the nerves, when he actually did.

"Wait. What tour?"

Kurt narrows his eyes like he thought she would have known. "He didn't tell you," he states slowly. She shakes her head. "Rachel, he turned down a tour with the Dave Matthews Band."

"For after..."

"For right now," he explains. She feels like she's been completely winded. This shouldn't feel as important as it does. "To be honest, I'm surprised. He really wants to do this."

"He..." She shakes her head a little. "He picked the show over a tour." Kurt shrugs his shoulder, but he's smiling. "I knew he was taking it seriously, but I didn't think..."

His phone rings and he says he has to go, but not before he makes her take him inside and show him what she just purchased. Even his mouth drops at the price, but he kisses her cheeks and tells her she'll look gorgeous in it, then leaves her back outside the store and heads down the sidewalk with his phone held to his ear.

She doesn't think she can get to Puck's place fast enough even in a cab, but it's probably the quickest way, so she climbs into the one that stops for her, and gives the name of the hotel. She's never been one of those people who complains about the traffic in New York City, but maybe she's just never been in this much of a hurry, because this is absolutely ridiculous. She could probably get there faster walking or something. Just as she's about to tell the cab driver to let her out, traffic seems to open up and she tells him to hurry, and he smiles at her in the rear view and there's a second where she fears for her life, but he manages to get her to the hotel in under 15 minutes, so she gives him a $50 and thanks him.

Thank god the doorman recognizes her and lets her in without question, or she would have had to make a scene, and she doesn't think anyone wants that.

She'd worry about how she looks if she didn't know this is her cutest wrap dress. Her hair is in a ponytail, so there's nothing to worry about there, and her makeup is light like it usually is. And to be honest, she doesn't care how she looks, because she's got one thing in mind right now and she's determined to get it.

She steps off the elevator to his suite and sees the living room empty. There's a half-full bottle of water on the table next to a leather-bound journal that's closed with a pen between the pages. She hears a noise come from down the hall, so she walks towards it and sees Puck standing in the kitchen with a mug in his hands.

He looks confused that she's there, but before he can ask any questions or say anything at all, she's got her hands on his face and she's dragging his lips down towards hers so she can kiss him. She's been thinking about it since the last time she kissed him, and for some reason, she's felt she needed an excuse of some kind. She has one now, and it's a very good one.

And god, he tastes like coffee and chocolate and _man_, and there's really no better combination than that right now.

He doesn't have a damn clue what it is that has her strutting into his place and kissing him like this, but he can't say he cares all that much, either, not when her tongue is in his mouth and her body's pressed all close to his. He manages enough mental clarity to set down his mug and put his hand on the small of her back and hold her upper arm with the other. If this is some weird teasing bullshit, he's gonna be pissed. He doesn't think it is, because he doesn't think she's that kind of girl.

She's pushing up the bottom of the tee shirt he's wearing, and he's not about to stop her. She's sexy as hell and she's kissing him like he's wanted her to for like, ever, and when she gets his shirt off him and runs her nails lightly down his chest, he's almost positive he hears her growl. _Growl_. He moans into her mouth because she's already kissing him again, and he's really got no complains about how any of this is going down.

She can't get enough of him, and that's a very, very dangerous thing to realize when she's not even got her clothes off yet and he's touching her in ways that are supposed to probably be innocent. Too bad she feels like she's burning up from the inside out. His body is ridiculous, and she's known this since the first time she saw a photo of him shirtless, but having the real thing beneath her hands shoots a thrill up her spine and makes her stand on her toes so she can feel his body the entire length of hers. She moves her lips to his neck, sucking lightly at the skin there and letting her tongue dart out to taste him. He moans and his fingers dig into her hips, hands holding her tightly against him.

"I want you so badly right now," she murmurs into his ear. He bites down gently on her collarbone and she just about loses her mind.

Then he's pushing her away and she does not understand why in the world he'd ever do that.

"Why?"

"Because you look like that," she tells him. It's meant as a joke, but it's mostly the truth, too. He looks like he doesn't know if he should buy it or not. "Kurt told me about the tour."

"Oh."

"You put the show before your career."

He shrugs his shoulder. "Yeah."

Her hands move to the tie of her dress and she gives it a tug. The fabric falls away from her body and she lets it slide off her shoulders and onto the floor, leaving her in cotton panties and a bra that doesn't match. He looks her up and down and she steps out of her shoes.

"So I'd like to have sex with you now," she tells him.

When she starts backing towards the hall that leads to his bedroom, he follows pretty much immediately.

It's not like he needs to be told twice or anything, and honestly, she came into his apartment and practically jumped him, so he's thinking she probably didn't even have to say the words and he would have gotten the hint. And she's wearing next to nothing, so that's, you know, fucking incredible. He picks her dress up off the floor and when he gets to his room, she's just standing there waiting for him. He thinks she looks hot as hell and he wants to get his hands on her immediately, so he tosses her dress onto the chair in the room and then sets his hands on her hips. He looks down at her face and he knows what she wants, but she's just kind of smiling at him and he's thinking she looks so _fucking_ perfect that he just wants to watch her for a second.

She leans a little closer and he figures he can tease her a little, so he meets her halfway, makes it look like he's going to kiss her and stops at the last second. She lets out a breath, tugs at the pocket of his jeans thinking he'll come closer, and he brushes his nose against hers a couple times before he kisses her.

It doesn't take much to get her out of what's left of her clothes, even less to get her begging, and she whines about his self control (how he has too much of it) when she's on her back and he decides to stand at the foot of the bed and take his jeans off. She arches her hips against absolutely nothing, then parts her legs just slightly, and he stops stalling. Fuck it. He's wanted her for months and she's offering herself up, so he's not going to waste any more time, even if teasing the shit out of her is way more fun than he thought it'd be.

There's something about her voice that's always kind of had him hooked. It's never sounded better than when she's whimpering his name into his ear.

... ... ...

She does not want to regret it, if for no other reason than it was absolutely incredible. For someone who'd never _really_ previously seen her naked and has only known her for a matter of months, he really seemed to know exactly how to make her fall apart. Quickly. And repeatedly. She knows he's made her do it before, but still, she's a little shocked. She's never been one of those girls who orgasms her first time with a man. She's always been too nervous or thinking too hard, and it's just never happened. She should have known Puck wouldn't stop until she did. It's very hard not to love that about him.

But when she wakes up in his king sized bed and she's completely alone, she starts thinking maybe she should have thought the whole thing through a little more.

The show opens _tomorrow_. She has less than 24 hours before she's on stage with him. Now he's going to see her as the girl who came to his place and threw herself at him, stripped out of her dress and told him she needed to sleep with him. What the hell was she thinking?

She'd talk to him about it if he were here. She's mad that he's not.

She refuses to get up and look for him. She's not going to pull on one of his shirts and go walking through this apartment to find him. If he wants her gone, he can man up and tell her as much. If he's regretting it or something, she doesn't necessarily want to know. The place is completely quiet, so she just rolls onto her side and closes her eyes, tries to go back to sleep even though it's barely 7:00 at night.

She hears footsteps after what is probably 15 minutes. She's just drifting off and hears him approaching, and she opens her eyes but doesn't move. The door is pushed open and seconds later she feels the bed dip behind her. He presses himself against her back, and then his arm is draping over hers and there's a half-eaten slice of pizza in front of her mouth.

"Want?" he asks. His voice is low in her ear.

She's not mad at him anymore.

She takes a bite because she's starving and she thinks she'd say yes to just about anything he offered her.

"That's really good," she says, mouth half full. He kisses the side of her neck and nods against her.

"So hungry." She closes her eyes for a second, until she hears him swallow, then take another bite. "Guess that happens when you skip dinner to fuck."

She elbows him in the ribs as she laughs. "Shut up." She rolls onto her back and he's on his side, head resting on his hand, propped up on his elbow. "Can I have some more?" He raises one brow and smirks as he chews, which would look absolutely ridiculous on anyone else. "Pizza, Puck. God."

He kisses her cheek and she wipes it after. She can't have pizza grease on her skin. He rolls his eyes at her, but she doesn't care.

"Fuck, you're hot," he says randomly as he polishes off the crust. She's had about a quarter of a slice of pizza and her stomach growling is taking a back seat to the throbbing between her legs right now.

"We need to sleep tonight," she tells him. She rolls onto her side so she's facing him, moves her hand down his side and over his hip until she's stroking his hardening length. "We'd better do this now."

"Yeah," he half-groans. "Yeah, right now." He arches against her hand and she watches his eyes slip closes. "Rach, fuck."

It's strange, but she loves how he does that, says her name followed by a curse like he's completely at a loss for anything else to say.

She likes making him a little speechless.

He's not exactly happy that she gets dressed right after and starts telling him she really needs to sleep in her own bed tonight. His bed's comfortable and he thinks she should be in it with him. He just tells her he's going to have his driver take her home because it's late, and when she walks into her apartment, her roommates are looking at her like they're wondering where she's been all night.

She just says that Finn owes Santana $100 as she walks to her room, and she closes the door against all their questions. She's tired and she needs a good night's rest. She's more relaxed than she's been in ages, and she's asleep almost as soon as her head hits the pillow.

... ... ...

He can't remember the last time he was this nervous, and it's stupid because he plays for crowds three times this size on a regular basis, sometimes with just himself and a guitar. He's got a whole cast of people backing him up and it's fucked, but he trusts them all. And he's got Rachel on his side, too. That's never a bad thing, he's learning.

He's still kind of pissed that she just left last night after the day/evening/whatever they had. He gets it, since obviously she didn't really plan on fucking him into unconsciousness or whatever. It's pretty clear she didn't have some master plan to get naked the night before their first show. It just kind of happened, and fuck, he's glad it did.

She blew all his thoughts, expectations, fantasies, whatever, right out of his head. He can honestly say she's one of the best he's ever had. A douchebag would say it's because he actually likes her, but whatever. Any girl who can make him come that hard is worth a _like_ in his book.

He's finished his warmup and one of the stagehands tells him they're 15 minutes away from curtain, and he might puke. Legitimately, he might puke.

He gets a text from her and it just says _Ahhhh! SO EXCITED! xo_.

It's cute, but he kind of wishes she'd just fucking come see him. He doesn't text back because he doesn't know what to say. He does like the little _xo_ at the end of her message, though. She's totally the kind of girl who leaves that shit.

He meets up with her backstage on their way to where they both need to stand for curtain call. She slips her hands into his, doesn't seem to care who's around, and looks up at him.

"Good luck," she says. He can tell she's nervous, too, but not like him. She squeezes his hands. She must be able to feel them shaking. "Don't be nervous."

"You've done this before. I haven't."

She leans up, kisses his cheek and wraps her arms around him, hugs him tightly. "I'll be right there with you."

He wants to say it's lame, and it is, really, but it makes him feel better anyway.

He stops caring about the audience after his first scene. They're just kind of _there_, and he knows he can make this perfect. Maybe he doesn't this time, but he comes pretty damn close.

The curtain comes down after their final scene and Rachel's arms are around him immediately as the audience cheers and their castmates do the same. Fuck, he just wants to kiss her. He feels weirdly _awesome_, and he just wants to fucking be alone with her right now so they can do things they can do when they're alone.

"You were amazing!" she says into his ear as she hugs him. "God, you were amazing."

"You were," he tells her, because it's true and he has a feeling she either knows 'cause it's just a given, or has no fucking clue.

She shakes her head and the curtain goes up again, so she takes his hand in hers and holds it so hard he worries for his bones. They take their bows and she only lets him go when she pushes him to the front of the stage.

Totally fucked, but this is easily one of the best nights he's ever had.

... ... ...

She eyes him across the room at the after party. She thinks he should wear suits more often, even if he's not wearing a tie with this one. And she knows he can barely keep his eyes off her in her short, strapless dress. Almost every time she looks at him, he's looking at her. People are going to find out about them if they keep this up, but Rachel's past the point of caring. She passed it two glasses of champagne ago.

Finn and Santana are standing with she and Kurt, and as much as she loves them showering her with praises, she's tired and she kind of just wants a bed. Not necessarily her own.

"I'll buy next round," Santana says, arm looped through Finn's.

"Sweetie, it's an open bar," Kurt says, even though it's been obvious all night and everyone knows.

"I know." Santana shrugs and Rachel rolls her eyes and sets down her empty glass. "I recently came into some money and I just wanted to say it."

"Shut up," Finn laughs, kissing her forehead. She grins a little and Rachel looks at Kurt, who's very obviously confused.

"I'm lost." Kurt finishes his drink and grabs Rachel's hand. "What is she talking about? Lottery?"

"Something like that," Rachel mumbles. "It's nothing."

Clearly Kurt doesn't yet know about the night before, and if Puck hasn't told him, she doesn't think she should, either.

"I guess lying Rachel has come out to play," he says cattily, arching his brow. "I'm getting drinks, then you're telling me the truth."

"Kurt, I'm..."

"The truth!"

He walks away and Rachel turns and glares at Santana. Maybe the whole cast and crew will find out eventually, but she doesn't want it to be tonight, and as soon as Kurt finds out, Rachel has a hard time believing it'll stay a secret for very long. If he decides it's good for Puck's career, the world will know by morning. She likes to think that if she asked him (if Puck asked him) to keep it quiet, he would, but she's also heard stories about Ian and really, she thinks he probably would sell photos to the highest bidder if it meant Puck's name on the front page of Google News.

"I can't believe you," she hisses at Santana. She really is pissed, but she doesn't think Santana gets that yet. "What am I supposed to tell him?"

"The truth, I think," Finn answers. He clearly hasn't sensed her tone, so she glares at him.

"Relax. Aren't they, like, BFF? He'll find out anyway," Santana says, shrugging her shoulder.

Rachel is so incredibly annoyed that she feels like she needs to just walk away, so that's what she does.

She slips into the dark hallway that leads to the balcony of this space they're in and takes a deep breath. Sometimes she wishes her life was more exciting, and then something like these past two days happens and she wants to take it all back. She's leaning back against the wall, enjoying the way it's cooling the skin of her back, and someone steps in front of her and puts his hands on her hips.

"Hi," he says. She didn't need to hear his voice to know who it was.

"Santana is driving me crazy."

He laughs a bit, but she doesn't know why. "I'm surprised Kurt isn't."

"Oh, he's starting to," she admits quietly. His hands slide over the satin of her dress and he lets out a low noise from the back of his throat that she probably shouldn't be able to hear. "Why didn't you tell him?"

"Why do you look so fucking good right now?"

"Puck," she laughs softly. "I asked you first."

"My question's more important," he insists, stepping closer so his thighs are brushing hers. She shouldn't let him do this; it could wrinkle her dress. It's hard to care much about things like that when she can feel the heat of his body against her. "Seriously, baby."

"Maybe your opinion of me is a little biased," she says. She trails her hand down his lapel, holding it between her fingers. She's playing with the button on his jacket as he looks down at her. "You have seen me naked."

"Mmm." He leans down like he's going to kiss her, but he doesn't actually do it. "Let's do that again."

"Immediately." He kisses her then, hard, until his hands are moving to her back and he's pressing himself into her. She's stop him, but she doesn't want to. "Let's leave," she murmurs against his lips.

"Yeah."

She loves wearing heels. She's just tall enough that she doesn't have to get up onto her toes to kiss him. She presses her lips to his and he's playing with the zipper beneath her arm. She doesn't totally trust him not to just pull it down right now. She's a little surprised, though; she always thought he was the kind of man who might just push up your dress to take you in an empty hallway.

God, he's doing such dirty things to her mind.

"It'll look suspicious if we leave together," she points out.

"Don't give a fuck."

She giggles a little, pushes him away. "Me, neither. Your place?"

She gives him a flirty look (filthy might be more apt, but she's trying not to think too hard about it) and steps away from him.

She'd ask him if he's coming, but he follows before she has to mention it. She tells Santana she won't be home tonight and the girl's eyes follow Puck as he walks to the door. It's no secret where she's staying and she's far too turned on by him right now to apologize for leaving her party (the show's party) early.

She meets him at his limo at the back entrance, and he says the dirtiest things in the world to her the entire drive to his hotel. She'd complain, but instead she holds her own and tells him she'll really have to treat him well if he makes good on all those promises. She puts her hand over the front of his pants for good measure, and he groans and bites down on her collarbone, tells her to be careful.

"I've been careful," she tells him. He grabs her wrist and pulls her hand away. "It's very overrated, don't you think?"

He's practically dragging her out of the limo and he actually pushes her through the door to his bedroom as he unzips her dress. It falls to the floor and he's pressing his hand between her legs before she can tell him to pick it up so it doesn't wrinkle.

She mentions it when he's got her on her back with his hand inside her panties, and he stops moving (she's not impressed) and pulls away, says, "If you're thinking about a fucking dress right now, I'm not doing a good enough job."

Then he kisses his way down her body, pulling off her underwear as he goes. She's sufficiently distracted.


	8. Chapter 8

He's asleep until someone's screeching and someone else's fingers are digging into the skin of his side and pushing closer to him. He opens his eyes when he hears something falling onto the floor, holds Rachel closer to him protectively, and looks up to see Kurt standing at the foot of the bed with his jaw dropped and his face red. Rachel's buried against his chest like she's embarrassed or something, and Puck makes sure the sheets are pulled up over her.

"What the hell?" Kurt asks, over-enunciating every word.

"Dude, please," Puck says, voice all full of sleep. Rachel finally lets her hand relax so she's not like, bruising him. "Get out."

"How could you not tell me?"

"Kurt, later," Puck grunts. Rachel's eyes are snapped closed and she's being oddly quiet. If she's pretending to sleep, she sucks at it. He laughs a little. "Rach."

Kurt scoffs indignantly and puts his hands on his hips. "_Rach_? You call her _Rach_?"

"Fuck off."

Rachel groans and burrows into the bed a little more, trying to hide under the covers. Funny, since Kurt's not interested in any of her nakedness at all. "This is humiliating," she whispers.

Puck can tell she really means it, that she's embarrassed or something, so he kisses her forehead and strokes her skin with his thumb as he looks to Kurt. "Seriously, man. Privacy."

Kurt shakes his head like it's unreasonable or something, but picks up the papers he dropped and sets them on the dresser. "Reviews. I brought them."

He's pissed, Puck can tell, but whatever. He leaves the room and slams the door behind him.

"God," she murmurs, face buried against him.

"No big deal."

She pulls back and glares. "Kurt just saw me naked."

Puck rolls his eyes. "You weren't naked, and dude's gay. Pretty sure tits don't even register." She lets out a huff and he tugs her closer to him again as he laughs. "Relax. It's cool."

"I didn't exactly want him to find out that way," she admits. He shrugs his shoulder. Who cares? "Do you think he'll tell anyone?"

"Don't care."

"Puck."

He can tell she's frustrated, but whatever. Kurt can tell whoever he wants. Maybe Rachel's just not as used to being in the media as he is. Half the people would shit themselves and half wouldn't give a damn. The rest wouldn't believe it. Maybe the math is wrong on that, but whatever.

He needs to distract her from it, so he says, "Didn't he say he brought reviews?" and laughs when she scrambles out of bed and reaches for his shirt from the night before to pull on. She looks way too fucking hot for him to care about anything in any stupid newspaper.

She picks up all the papers Kurt dropped, seems annoyed that they're all out of order, then throws away anything that isn't the arts section anyway, so he doesn't know what her problem is. She sits cross-legged on the bed and it's really fucking difficult to concentrate when she's doing that, because she's not wearing panties and that shirt isn't covering her as much as she thinks it is. She's distracted by the reviews she's reading out loud, and he should probably be paying more attention than he is.

She can believe, of course, that the show was so well-received, but still, part of her is always completely shocked that anyone likes her this much. Maybe that goes back to her high school days and how insecure she was and the reasons that made her like that. It's just always an overwhelming feeling to have critics and audiences love her like they do. The show is being called one of the best in years, with relatable characters and an amazing cast. They're saying Puck is remarkable and Rachel is 'perfect', and she almost feels tears in her eyes. She does this every time, falls apart when all her hard work finally pays off.

But then she's looking at Puck and he's just laying there with one hand behind his head, smirking at her. As incredibly sexy as that is, she doesn't understand how he's not freaking out like she is. She's just read all the reviews out loud and he's just _sitting_ there. Of course, his ego is bigger than any she's ever known, so he probably just expected this and thinks nothing of being called a natural at something he's never done before in his life.

"How are you not more excited?" she asks, pushing at his thigh. He laughs at her. "This is huge."

"What's the shock? We're fucking awesome and we know our shit. Obviously people loved it." She folds the papers and shakes her head, because he's just so arrogant, and if she didn't know he has good reason to be, she'd probably hate him. "You know you're never gonna get a bad review anyway."

She's gotten them before and they sting, and she works hard so she never has to feel that again. There's a tiny part of her heart that loves him for thinking she never will, for sounding so sure of it.

She straddles his thighs and looks at the clock on the bedside table. "We have to leave in an hour and a half. I need you at least twice before then."

He grabs her hips and pulls her forward, then tugs the shirt up and over her head as they both groan.

He doesn't say anything in response, but he's hard beneath her and fisting his hand in her hair to pull her down for a kiss.

They're only 10 minutes late to the brunch being thrown in their honour (the cast and crew's honour, but _really_) and that's just because he combines their shower with her '_at least'_ and pins her against the tile wall.

... ... ...

Kurt doesn't talk to him for two days, and it's kind of the best fucking two days he's had in a long time. Mostly because he spends it either with Rachel or at the theater. No one knows about them and he likes it that way. Obviously he doesn't give a shit about being seen with her or what it'll do for his image or reputation; that part's all bullshit and he thinks it's stupid that people care so much anyway. He just likes that it's just between them and he doesn't have to answer questions about it or have cameras in their faces all the damn time.

They spend one night at her house, go there after their show and Finn and Santana are already asleep. Rachel's tired, so she strips out of her clothes and crawls into bed, and they just kiss a little bit before he says goodnight and pulls away. She's tired and to be honest, he needs some rest, so he ignores the surprised look on her face telling him this is about the last thing she expected him to do, and they just go to sleep.

They wake up in the morning and hear Santana laughing as she and Finn get ready for work or whatever. They probably know he's here, but it really isn't a big deal. Rachel just wanted her own bed and her own house, but she wanted him, too, so he let her have both.

"Good morning," she says sleepily, leaning back against him when she wakes up. He knows they'll probably grow out of this cuddly, have-to-be-touching-at-all-times-while-asleep phase (a phase he usually hates) but he's okay with it right now, her hot little body pressed close to his.

"Morning."

"Sorry if they woke you."

"I was awake," he tells her.

She giggles and glances at him over her shoulder. "Liar."

He kisses her and they hear the front door close, and when he offers to make her breakfast, she says everything in the kitchen is pretty easy to find, and she'll be in the shower.

He honestly can't remember the last time he cooked for a woman. He can hear her singing in the shower down the hall and he shakes his head as he cracks eggs for french toast.

... ... ...

They have an entire day off, and they wake up in his bed to voices in the living room. They get up at the same time, and Puck just hands her the jeans she was wearing the night before, and she grabs a top and gets dressed while he steps into his closet. He comes out fully clothed, smiles at her a little before heading for the door. She knows one of the voices is Kurt, who has just barely started talking to Puck again. The other one, she doesn't know.

Puck doesn't ask her to come with him to talk to his visitors, so she gathers her things and decides to leave. She's not going to stay and be privy to a private conversation about his career or the aspects of his life she's not a part of. She steps into the living room and sees Puck there with his arms crossed, Kurt sitting on the sofa and another man who looks like he's trying very hard to look younger than he is, standing across from Puck. They all look at her when they hear her, and she forces a smile.

"I'll just..."

"Ian Brent." The man extends his hand to her. She doesn't like the way he's looking at her, but she shakes it anyway, because she's nothing if not polite.

"I don't want to interrupt," she says. "I'll get out of your way."

"Stay. Talk," Ian insists. She does not like him. She casts a glance to Puck and she can tell he's not totally thrilled their morning was interrupted either. "I'm Puck's manager."

"I know who you are," she almost snaps. He gives her a slow smirk and she wants to knock him down about 18 pegs. "You're the one who jeopardized the show by suggesting Puck breach his contract and abandon it. I'm very aware of who you are."

Puck kind of wants to kick everyone but her the fuck out of his place, because she's totally incredible and _no one_ stands up to Ian like that. She's got a backbone and it's sexy as hell.

"Business is business," Ian says, shrugging his shoulders. "You artist types don't seem to get that. Keeps me in a job."

She legitimately glares at him. "The theater _is_ a business," she says. "I seriously doubt your judgement now that you're suggesting otherwise."

Kurt's mouth is a perfect 'O' when she looks at him, and Puck just looks like he wants her right now.

"Don't hold back," Ian says sarcastically, straightening his ugly tie. "And we're going to talk about you anyway."

She sets her bag on the table and takes a seat next to Kurt. "In that case, I'll stay."

So she sits there and listens to Ian's brilliant plan, which is basically to come clean and go public and sell the story to the highest bidder. She's not interested and neither is Puck. This hasn't even been a thing for any significant matter of time, and should it end, she really doesn't want the distraction of the media having a field day with it and chasing her down for statements. If she ends up on the cover of _People_, she wants it to be because of her own talent, not because of who she's dating.

"I may not have a publicist, but I've gotten along fine without one, and my instinct is telling me this is a terrible idea," she says. Ian rolls his eyes and she swears she wants to slap that permanent grin straight off his face. "I'm not doing it."

"I can do it without you, sweetheart."

She stands up and narrows her eyes. "You're a patronizing asshole," she spits at him.

Puck steps between them, facing her, and looks her in the eye. "It's cool," he says, speaking softly. "He's not gonna do anything."

"Do you know me at all? You think I won't do it anyway?" Ian says, laughing softly and shaking his head.

Puck turns to face him. He fucking hates this asshole these days. "You do and you're fired," he says seriously.

Ian balks. "We have a contract, Puckerman."

Puck grins, crosses his arms. "And people get out of contracts all the time. Don't they, Ian?" he asks smugly.

Rachel has witnessed him do some very sexy things, but this may be at the top of the list. She slides her hand down his back and he glances at her over his shoulder.

Ian walks out, and Kurt follows him after kissing both Rachel and Puck on their cheeks and saying he'll talk to them later. Rachel wraps her arms around Puck's waist and presses her cheek against his shoulder blade.

"That was incredibly noble of you."

"Whatever. Guy's being a dick."

She kisses him through his shirt and he grabs her hand, tugs it as he turns around and she ends up in front of him. "I appreciate the solidarity."

He kinks his brow when she looks up at him through her lashes. "You appreciate it enough to let me get you out of those jeans again, don't you?" he asks.

She's laughing as she pulls him back to the bedroom.

... ... ...

"Play me a song."

Okay, granted, if she's sleeping in his bed and he's sitting back against the pillows plucking out melodies on his guitar, she's probably going to wake up and say shit like that.

"No."

"Puck," she whines. She's half asleep and cute as fuck, and when she looks up at him he's ready to bust out his best shit. "You never play me anything."

"I sing at you every day, woman." She punches his leg, but she's got no strength whatsoever, so it just makes him laugh. She rolls onto her side and tucks her hands under her cheek, and honestly, she's got him. Fuck, she's just too..._too._ "What do you want to hear?"

"You'll even take requests?" she teases. He messes up her hair because she hates it when he does that shit. "Something slow. And old. And sweet." He glances at her like she's crazy. "Are you surprised I'm specific?"

He'd like to say he doesn't know anything that fits those parameters, but it's kind of his niche, other than his original stuff. He starts playing an old James Taylor song, and she sighs all dreamily and looks up at him with wide, impressed eyes.

"I love this song," he admits before she does. She puts her hand on his thigh and nods. "Sing it."

"No," she says, shaking her head. He thinks that's kind of fucked, that she'll ask him to do something and he does, and then she won't do the same for him. "It's nice like this."

He stops playing all together and leans down, kisses her before he sets down his guitar.

He'll tell her about that song he wrote for her. He'll do it someday. Today is not that day.

... ... ...

She's falling in love with him and it's terrifying her, because they haven't even been together all that long and she doesn't just give her heart to any man who invites her into his bed. She hasn't fallen in love in ages and ages. She's not sure she even remembers how to do it. She certainly doesn't know how to do it with a man who lives a lifestyle like Puck does.

She loves the show and she loves that she gets to share it with him, but she needs a break from this man so she can sort out her feelings and talk to someone about it so she doesn't fall headlong into something and leave him behind her, wondering how on earth she could possibly have thought they were so serious. There's also the fact that she feels like she's been half in love with him for a few years, just because of his music alone, and she doesn't want _that_ to cloud _this_. Noah Puckerman, Rock Star, is not the same person as Puck, the man she shares a bed with nearly every night and makes her feel everything a million times more than she has in forever, both physically and emotionally.

"I'm going to go home," she tells him after their Sunday matinee. They have all day Monday off. She needs to not see him for a while.

"Okay." He looks at her warily. "You okay?"

"Fine." She throws on a fake smile she knows he sees through immediately. "I just need a night with Santana, you know? I know she has wedding things she wants to go over, and I..."

"Rachel," he laughs. He sets his hands on her hips and looks directly at her. "You can say you want time alone."

"I didn't want to be rude," she says quietly. "Sorry."

"I'd rather you be rude and honest than lie."

"I wasn't lying!" she insists, eyes wide. He doesn't look angry, so that's good. "All that was the truth."

"Okay, okay." He kisses her and it's far more gentle than it should be, considering who he is. This is the problem - she's constantly wondering if he's falling in love with her, too, but they haven't even put a label on this thing they have going on. She can't very well ask him if he is. "See you Tuesday, Ohio."

Her heart melts at the nickname so she walks away before she can tell him as much.

... ... ...

He's sitting on his couch with Kurt watching reruns of MASH. There's nothing happening on the screen right now that's making him pay attention. He's thinking about Rachel. Happens all the time. This time, he's kind of worried and not just thinking about her naked. She was acting weird earlier, and he's not about to pretend he doesn't know why.

He's not an idiot.

"Rachel's kind of in love with me," he says out loud for the first time.

Kurt nearly chokes on his water, looks over. "What?"

Puck shrugs. "She is."

"And you haven't run for the hills?" Kurt asks warily, like he's worried about planting ideas or something.

"Dude, she's...I could...I mean, if I had more time, I could be in love with..." He sighs. Why the fuck is he talking like this? He sounds like a fucking moron and he hates it. Not to mention, the look on Kurt's face is way too amused right now and he doesn't like it. "Whatever."

"Puck, you should tell her."

"Are you high?" Fucking joke, right there. "No."

"Do you notice that she's pulling away? She probably thinks she's in deeper than you are."

"She is."

"I mean way deeper," Kurt says with a roll of his eyes. "She probably thinks you're incapable of loving her back."

"Why would she think that?" he asks seriously. Fucking crazy.

"Because she's a woman and that's what they do." Kurt shrugs his shoulder. "If you want to keep her, and I think you do, you really should give her some kind of hint that you're not just in it for sex." Puck leans his head back against the couch. That sounds fucking horrible. "I'm not saying you have to tell her you're falling in love with her - which you definitely are, by the way, just in case you haven't caught on to that yet - but you should let her know you're serious."

He sighs and watches Radar do something fucking stupid.

"Yeah."

Kurt is right. It's annoying that he does that so much.

... ... ...

Her girl's night with Santana basically means they lock Finn in he and Santana's bedroom. Not _really_, but they let him know he's not _totally_ welcome to watch Dirty Dancing and eat the ice cream they bought. They sit in the living room in their sweats and talk about their weeks, catch up like they haven't gotten to do much of lately.

After Rachel's finished talking about her shows' highs and lows from the past however many days, Santana says, "So, you're in love with him," and Rachel nearly pulls a muscle in her neck, she turns her head so fast. "Babe, I know you."

Rachel sighs and tugs her hand through her hair. "What do I do?"

"Uh, tell him."

"Are you insane?" she screeches. Santana flinches and glares at her. "I can't _tell_ him. He'll run away so fast."

"Rach, come on. That guy is fucking stupid for you," Santana insists. Rachel suspects that might be true, but she's also almost positive he's never been in a serious relationship in his life. "You know, you do this _all_ the time."

"I beg your pardon?"

"You find excuses not to be happy," Santana says seriously. Rachel feels her heart shrink in her chest. "Don't give me that look. It's what you do." Rachel looks away. She doesn't like this conversation anymore. "You never let yourself believe that anyone is going to stick around."

"He's not going to," Rachel says matter-of-factly. "When the show is over..."

"Rachel, that doesn't mean he's going to be over _you_."

She lets herself think about it. Santana's right. She doesn't want to believe anyone wants her, because any time she has, it's ended in heartbreak and she'd rather avoid that. But she's starting to think being without Puck now would cause her heartbreak, too, and maybe Santana's not crazy. Maybe he won't just leave and forget about her.

... ... ...

"Hey, so my mom's coming to see the show," he tells her Tuesday night. They've barely had a chance to talk. He rocked the show tonight and she kind of rewarded him by stripping her dress off and climbing back onto his bed. And he _wants_ to talk to her, wanted to before the whole stripping thing, but he wanted to sleep with her, too, so he took advantage of that.

It's fucked up how much he missed her. Totally fucked up. And the even more fucked up thing is that he was thinking about when the show's over and he has to leave, how much he'll miss her between visits. He's planning this shit in his head, doing some long distance thing with her or something, and he never does that. He's never done that.

"That's nice," she says quietly. She seems tense or something.

"She wants to meet you." She nods. He doesn't think she gets it. "She wants to meet my girlfriend."

She pulls away from him, trying not to smile, and holds the sheet to her chest even though he's seen every single inch of her body. She wasn't expecting those words, that one in particular, but she wanted him to say it, wanted him to tell her he doesn't just want his mother to shake hands with his costar.

"Does she?" she asks. She's being sneaky, but she thinks he likes it, based on the smile upon his lips as he slides his fingertips over her forearm. That always makes her shiver.

"Yeah."

She lays on top of him and kisses his face, and he laughs and asks her if she really thought she wasn't his girlfriend.

She's fucking crazy if so.


	9. Chapter 9

They're photographed getting a late (very late) dinner after their performance one night. Someone takes a photograph of them leaving the restaurant, and they've both had a little wine, so she's walking backwards with his hands in hers and then before they slip into his car, he kisses her. The photos are on JustJared by morning.

"Fuck," he mumbles when he reads the email from Kurt with the link to the site. "_Fuck._"

Rachel's sleeping next to him, her hair messy and the shirt of his she's wearing gaping at the neck. He's trying to think about how pissed she's going to be. It's kind of their own fault these pictures were taken, but he'd like some fucking privacy. They've been pretty lucky no one has found them out before now. There's been speculation and stuff, but nothing to prove it right until these pictures.

He's not even _that_ pissed, he just thinks he likes it best when he doesn't have to deal with all the bullshit of the media.

The thing is, he really doesn't give a fuck who knows about he and Rachel. What he cares about is that now they're not going to be able to look at one another without someone saying she's pregnant or they eloped or he's handed over his balls for her to put in a box on her mantle or some shit. And he has no clue what Rachel's going to say about any of this.

He gets out of bed to go call Kurt, because maybe they can do damage control on this before it gets out of hand. The easiest way is probably to make an official statement about them being together. If you take away all the questioning and just come right out and be honest about things, people stop caring a little faster.

She doesn't like waking up alone when the alternative is waking up with her gorgeous boyfriend, so when she opens her eyes and realizes he's not there, she's not totally thrilled. She can hear him in the other room on the phone, and hers is blinking by the bedside, so she grabs it. There's a message from Finn with a link to an article and she sees a few cute (albeit totally intrusive) photographs of she and Puck. The article points out that they're clearly together and make a very attractive and successful couple, and when she scrolls down and reads through the comments, people are saying they love her outfit, and that he's super hot, and that they saw the show and their chemistry is perfect. There are a couple people saying he'll cheat on her like he cheats on everyone, but she disregards that. She also disregards the one saying she's a bitch.

He's throwing his phone onto the couch when she steps into the living room. She's quiet, so he doesn't hear her, and he tenses slightly when she wraps her arms around his waist. She's standing on the step right behind him, so she can rest her chin on his shoulder comfortably, and he sets his hands over hers.

"There are pictures," he says.

"I know." He turns his head a little. Honestly, he's expecting her to be freaking out right now. "We look good together." He laughs a little bit, but she turns his head so he can see them in the mirror on the wall like she can. "I mean it. We're gorgeous."

He reaches back with one of his hands and slides it down over her hip so he's touching her thigh. "Yeah, we are."

"I don't care who knows about us," she says. She kisses the side of his neck, brings her hand up to run it through the hair at the back of his head before he grabs onto it and pulls it over his shoulder and kisses her palm. "It doesn't change anything, right?"

He shakes his head. She's fucking amazing. She wraps her legs around his hips from behind when he tells her so, and it's a little fucking ridiculous that he piggy-backs her to the sofa and sets her down, but then she's laughing this cute little laugh and he pulls off his shirt and lays down on top of her.

... ... ...

His mom loves her, which does not surprise him at all. They get along so well it's almost scary, and he cooks them dinner and sits there with his arm around Rachel's chair as they all talk over coffee after.

Rachel smiles at him across the room when she's talking to his mom. The woman is lovely and she raised a wonderful son, and Rachel says that, which makes Mrs. Puckerman pull her into a hug and say, "You're very, very good for him."

It sounds like there's more she wants to say, but she holds back.

... ... ...

She doesn't tell him she's looking at buying an apartment. She doesn't tell anyone, actually, until a realtor calls the apartment instead of her cell phone and Finn answers and then gets kind of mad at her for keeping a secret. It has nothing to do with the rent going up for he and Santana or anything like that. It has everything to do with he and Santana telling her repeatedly that they're not going to ask her to leave just because they're getting married.

She's made up her mind, though, and while it might take her forever to find an apartment, she's going to do it.

She goes to a movie premier with Puck. It's their first appearance as a couple, and she wears a short, tight, blue dress that he seems to love, and they walk the red carpet with a thousand flashbulbs going off in their faces, and at one point he leans over and tells her she should laugh because her laugh is fucking beautiful, and she can't do it because she's too busy staring at him like he hung the moon or something.

She's bordering on pathetic with how much she cares about him.

When they're back at her place, she's already online and looking at photos, and she's very relieved to see that there are just as many of him looking at her adoringly as there are of her looking at him that way.

"What's this?" he asks.

Dammit. There are a few real estate listings in a folder on her dresser and he's looking through it.

"It's..." She can't say 'nothing'. "Exactly what it looks like."

He sits down at the edge of her bed and looks through the papers. She's basically holding her breath as he shuffles through and reads the specifics. She should not care so much to know what he really thinks.

"I like this one," he says, pushing a paper over the keyboard of her laptop.

She smiles. It's her favourite, too, and her financial advisor has given her the green light to make an offer.

She kisses him and closes her laptop. He's wanted to get her out of her dress all night, and she really, really wants to let him.

"Hey," he says as he's tugging down her zipper. He has her on her stomach on her bed and it's completely ridiculous that he's just on his knees straddling her legs and leaning over her. Sexy, too.

"Hmm?"

He uses his hands to part the fabric of her dress, then runs his palms over the skin of her back. "Can I stay with you when I come to town?" He asks it against the shell of her ear, sexy and low and completely teasing, because that concept was a deciding factor in her finding her own place to begin with.

She shudders and nods, says, "Yes," breathlessly. "I thought you hated New York."

He chuckles, kisses his way down her spine and pushes his hands up under the skirt of her dress. "Things change."

He takes his time getting her naked, and she has no idea why, considering all night long he told her he wanted to peel that dress off her body and make her come.

And she is going to believe he loves New York now because of her. That's what he was implying anyway, and she's not crazy enough to think otherwise.

... ... ...

He tells her he loves her on national television.

Because he's a fucking _moron_ that way.

See, he's on The Today Show and sitting in the chair, and they of course ask him about her and hold up a picture of him walking with her, and he's got his arm around her and she's laughing with her head tipped back and this fucking gorgeous smile on her face. Then they show a promo photo from the show, her sitting in a big leather chair and him on the floor, leaning back against it with a guitar across his lap and her leg touching his arm.

He's smiling like a bastard and Meredith Vieira (who he's always fucking hated) says something about Rachel seeming like a smart, talented woman, but rumour has it they didn't get along in the beginning.

He doesn't want to get into all that, so he just says, "Naw, I love that girl," without even thinking twice.

And even after he's realized what he said, during the commercial break when Kurt stomps onto set and berates him for it, be doesn't feel all that weird about it.

Fuck it. It's the truth.

She's waiting for him when he gets back to his place. She's got her arms crossed, weight on one hip and her brow raised. He knows she's not pissed, because she's got this little grin on her lips.

"You told Matt Lauer before you told me."

"Actually," he says, grabbing her hips, "I told you both at the same time."

"Well, that's okay then." He kisses her before she can give him any more snark.

"It just slipped out."

She really isn't mad. She was watching the show live with Santana and Finn, and she swears she melted into a pool right there on the sofa as she watched his face when he said the words.

And there's something incredible about him telling half the world he loves her.

He pushes her away when she tries to put her arms around him. "What?" she asks, laughing.

"You got something to say, Ohio?" He's got his brow raised and he's quite literally staring her down.

"No." She giggles when he narrows his eyes. "Do you really want to provoke it out of me?" she asks. "I mean, I am going on Regis and Kelly this week. Maybe I could..." He kisses her hard, slips his hands into her hair and she's very, very sick of teasing him, even if it is making her laugh.

"You wanna tease?" His voice sounds so sexy she shudders, and he drags his finger over her hip and between her legs before pulling it away. "I can tease, too."

"Okay. Okay, I love you, too."

He shakes his head. "I don't think I should believe you. Sounded a little desperate there, Rach."

"You should believe me," she says seriously, more seriously than she's said anything since he walked in. "It's been true for longer than I'd like to admit."

He doesn't know what to say to that, so he kisses her instead and manages to get them to his bedroom before he goes absolutely fucking crazy for her.

... ... ...

There's a chance she's being a little dramatic. She's been crying for about two hours and she's currently clutching one of her pillows and laying on her stomach.

Their show ended tonight and he's leaving in two days.

It's not going to change them. Their relationship is amazing and she absolutely does not doubt his ability to be faithful to her, no matter what the gossip magazines say or how many people approach her on the street and warn her. Of course, that's a little more difficult these days since she had to hire a bodyguard. She's a little miffed that she's practically more famous for being his girlfriend than she is for her own talents. That said, more and more people are listening to her or watching her on Youtube or however it is people are exposed to new things, because they want to know why he's with her. That, or they're fans of his, which makes them fans of hers. Those people are very sweet, actually.

She just doesn't want him to go. Is that so bad?

Her apartment is still mostly empty. Honestly, when does she have time to furniture shop? She's too particular to just do it online, so all she has are the things she owned from her place with Finn and Santana (essentially a bedroom set and a lovely wing back chair) and a few pieces she's managed to find on her days off, like a dining table and a leather sofa. She can hear his footsteps echoing through the mostly empty place. They came here together, obviously, but he was doing something in the kitchen. Actually, she thinks he just didn't want to deal with all the tears. She can't totally blame him.

"Baby," he murmurs, sitting down on the edge of the bed. He sets his hand between her shoulder blades and rubs a small circle over and over again.

It's not like this is fun for him either. He's totally torn because he honestly can't wait to get back to L.A. and start working on the record and finishing up writing a couple songs; he's got most of them done (as long as the label likes them). But he doesn't want to leave Rachel and, no lie, New York has totally grown on him and he actually thinks he's going to miss it. He's come to like this city. Probably because she showed him all the best stuff about it. (Herself included.)

He just really loves this girl and wants to be around her. Kind of a natural thing.

"Are you okay?" he asks, because he's honestly getting a little worried.

"I'm losing everything all at the same time," she mumbles pitifully. He laughs, which she most certainly doesn't appreciate. She lets out a huff and turns onto her side so her back is to him. "Don't make fun of me, you ass."

"I'm not," he manages. He slides his hand up her body. She squirms a bit like that'll make him stop. (They both know it won't.) "You're just exaggerating."

"I tend to do that."

"Yeah, I know."

She lays on her back and looks up at him, lets him set his hand on her stomach and rests hers over top of his. "I'm going to miss you."

"I know," he repeats. He leans down for a kiss. "Me too." They've done all this before, so he doesn't know why they're doing it again. "You could come with me."

They've done this before, too, and the answer has always been the same.

"I can't."

"Yeah, you can."

"Puck," she says exhaustedly. At least she's not crying anymore.

"Fine," he sighs. "I know." He reaches over and uses the back of his index finger to wipe the tears off her face. He honestly thinks she's the cutest thing ever. "Can we not spend the next two days doing this shit?"

"That's a good idea," she admits. She smiles at him and bites her lip. "I bought you something."

He raises his brow. He likes presents.

"Is it lacy and revealing?" he asks.

She giggles as she sits up. "No offense, but I don't think that's really your style." She laughs even harder when he rolls his eyes and then glares at her. "I'm just going to get ready for bed, then you can unwrap it."

She gets up and walks into the bathroom, and he's not really paying attention. He leans back on her bed against the pillows and loosens his tie. She didn't exactly _make_ him wear one to the after party tonight, but she mentioned she thinks he looks sexy in a tie, so, you know, he basically had to put one on after that.

And honestly, all he's really thinking is that 'getting ready for bed' should include very little more than making out and getting naked. If she thinks she's putting on those ridiculous fucking pajama pants with the pigs on them and just closing her eyes, she's got another thing coming. Surely to god, she can't honestly believe he's going to actually let her get sleep tonight.

She comes out wearing her white satin robe. Her face is scrubbed clean and her hair is up and kind of messy (he thinks it's hot) and she walks to her bed. He's kind of looking around for a present. Knowing her, it's wrapped immaculately with ribbons and shit.

She can tell he's confused, and it was actually really hard to not pout over him completely guessing what she'd gotten him. Generally speaking, she doesn't think lingerie is a 'gift' to a man (she's positive he'd argue against that theory) but she wanted to get him _something_, and what do you buy for your boyfriend who happens to have more money than he even knows what to do with? She'd thought of getting him a guitar, but he has several and gets them for free. Really, getting him _this_ is probably always going to be appreciated.

So when she straddles his hips, he looks just a little shocked, and when she reaches for his hands and brings them to her waist, to the tie there, he starts that slow, _dirty_ grin he tends to get at times like these.

"Go ahead," she says.

She could have come up with something more flirty or seductive or teasing, but they play that game an awful lot and he's been so amazing tonight that all she really wants is to have him undress her. And then, of course, do the things he does to her when she's undressed.

Honestly, he was kind of joking about the lacy thing. Not really, 'cause hell yes, he's always up for that, but he thought she got him a real gift and he was starting to feel like a total dick because he didn't get her anything at all. He wishes he'd thought of it, because he totally _should_ have gotten her something. But now that he knows she got him something they can both enjoy, he'll just reciprocate by giving her multiples and it'll all be good.

And his mouth is kind of dry because she's sitting on top of him and telling him to get her naked and not wasting any time in letting him know exactly what she wants.

He tugs at the tie of her robe and parts the satin, sees her in plum-coloured lace. He can see absolutely _everything_ and he smoothes his hands over her breasts, then down her sides to sit on her hips while she shrugs her robe off and drops it onto her floor.

"What are you doing to me?" he asks, letting his head fall back onto the pillow.

She gives him a sexy little smirk and starts unbuttoning his shirt for him. "You're not even done unwrapping me yet." She leans down, grinds against him a little bit. "And don't make it sound like it's something you don't want."

He chuckles softly, mostly because she's fucking crazy if she thinks he _ever_ doesn't want her, and slips his hand into the hair at the back of her head. He kisses her, and because he's talented, unhooks this thing she's wearing where it's closed at the back of her neck. When she sits up, it falls down off her chest.

"If you're trying to make me want to stay even more, it's fucking working."

The way she smiles lets him know she was probably trying just a little bit.


	10. Chapter 10

The day he has to leave, she wakes up in his bed with him tracing shapes on her back, dangerously close to her ass. She doesn't mind, really, because a glance at the window tells her it's somewhere around mid-morning and the sun is out and he's leaving in a matter of hours to go back to L.A. She doesn't want him to go and she's being a brat about it. She doesn't move, doesn't want to let on that she's awake. If she's awake, he's going to have sex with her to avoid talking about the fact that today is the day he boards a plane.

She's not stupid and naive. She knows this isn't the end of them, and she trusts him. She made him promise they'd talk every day, even if it was just for a few minutes, and he insisted he's really good at writing dirty texts. She knows this already.

"Rach." She doesn't move. He laughs a little, leans down and rests his chin on her shoulder blade. "You're awake."

"I am not," she pouts. He chuckles harder and curves his hand around her hip. "If we don't wake up, you can't leave."

He kisses her shoulder, tugs on her hip a little so she'll roll over onto her back. She doesn't know how long he's been awake, but she can tell it's been a while. She knows he's not the type to just watch her sleep, but he's definitely not above just touching her with the tips of his fingers while he watched the ceiling.

"If we don't wake up, I can't make love to you before I get on a plane."

She smiles and blinks a few times. "How difficult was it for you to just say 'make love'?" she asks, biting back a laugh.

"Pretty hard." He rolls her beneath him and waits a second, doesn't kiss her just yet. "I'm totally capable of doing it, though."

She giggles, nods. She knows that. "I really love you," she whispers after a moment, looks into his eyes.

"I really love you, too, Ohio." He brushes his nose against hers and kisses her quickly.

He's barely through the door to his place in L.A. before he's grabbing his guitar and reaching for a pen. He's got lyrics in his head he needs to write down. First, he texts her to tell her he landed safe and she writes back _Good. xoxo._

... ... ...

Santana is sitting in the lobby of Rachel's apartment building with a bag by her feet and her phone in her hand when Rachel comes back from a meeting with the stylist Kurt recommended.

"What are you doing here?" Rachel asks, smiling at her friend.

Santana shrugs her shoulder and stands. "I gave you a day to be sad about him leaving. Now we're having a girl's day and you're getting the fuck over it."

She picks up the bag and Rachel can see a few wedding magazines inside, laughs as they head to the escalator. "You mean put the attention back on you and the wedding," she says, brow raised.

"Oh, _please_," Santana says. "God forbid _I_ get a little bit of the attention, Rachel. Miss Broadway Star dating Noah Puckerman."

She's teasing, mostly, and that's good because if she were serious, Rachel would have to point out the way things were when they were younger. And the way things were was _the complete opposite_. The head cheerleader making Rachel's life something of a living hell.

Anyway. They're over it.

"I think I found a dress I want to wear," Rachel says as she unlocks the door to her apartment. "It's the colour you want."

"Sounds good," Santana says. Rachel really is happy that Santana, though she wants a 'perfect' wedding, isn't a bitchy bride. It's kind of a miracle, if she thinks about it. She looks through the apartment and then back at Rachel. "Okay, are we really not going to talk about him?"

Rachel rolls her eyes. "No, we're not. There's nothing to talk about. People have long distance relationships all the time."

"You don't."

"Santana," Rachel sighs. "It's fine. We're fine. I'm going to see him soon anyway, so I'm not thinking about him not being here right now."

Santana raises her brow and shakes her head. "Yes, you are."

They talk solely about the wedding after that, because Santana is right and Rachel honestly doesn't _want_ to think about it. She'll get used to it. She doesn't have a choice.

... ... ...

It takes two weeks in L.A. before he's photographed with some slut in too short a skirt. The pictures end up fucking _everywhere _ and like most of these shitty, grainy pap photos, it's not at all what it looks like.

Fuck, he hopes Rachel believes that.

Look, he's a celebrity. He's hot and young and famous, and that means that when he goes to a birthday celebration for another celebrity at a club on a Friday night, he's going to have pictures show up on the internet by the early hours of Saturday morning.

This chick just came up to him, drunk off her ass and reeking of Chanel No. 5 (because yeah, _instant class_) and grabbed onto his arms just above his elbows. He put his hands on her waist to steady her because she looked like she was about to fall backwards. She then proceeded to tell him she was in New York and saw the play and she wanted to fuck his brains out. He was not at all interested, and he told her that, but she leaned up so her tits were pressed against his chest and told him she didn't care if he had a girlfriend. Then he walked away before he said some really terrible shit, and left the club sober and alone and went home. He was going to call Rachel, but the time difference meant it was really late in New York and he didn't want to wake her up.

He's regretting that decision now.

He calls her when Kurt sends him the proof of the _Us Weekly_ cover that's coming out in a few days, with one of these grainy pictures blown up and a smaller one of he and Rachel. The tagline reads _Noah Puckerman Cheats! _and underneath it says _Broadway Star Devastated_.

He hasn't even talked to Rachel. It hasn't even been 12 hours since he went out.

Fucking media.

"Hello?"

"Rachel, you know..."

"I know," she cuts him off. He sighs in relief or frustration. "I certainly hope if you were going to cheat on me, you'd pick someone with a little more class than that whore."

He wants to laugh, because yeah, she can be a bitch when she wants to be. He's just happy it's not directed at him.

"I wouldn't cheat on you."

"I know that," she says again. "Kurt emailed me. He said he's going to - and I quote - maim that backstabbing, lowlife bitch of a reporter with his bare hands and make sure they don't print this garbage."

That's better than what Kurt said on the phone to him this morning, to be honest. He's never heard Kurt say so many curse words in all his life, and honestly? It's kind of awesome that Kurt's all mama-bear over Rachel because they're friends, too. It's totally going to help Puck out with this kind of shit.

"I shouldn't have gone out," he says.

"Puck, it was your friend's birthday. You shouldn't have to stop living your life just because people want to document and misconstrue your every action."

She's like, an angel or some shit. Honestly, she's the coolest woman ever and he does not know why she's with him, but he's pretty fucking happy that she is. He's really glad she's on his side no matter what, and it feels incredible to know that it takes more than a bad picture of a stupid situation to make her doubt him or shake her trust in him.

"You're the shit, baby."

She laughs loudly into the phone and asks how his night was, otherwise.

_Us Weekly_ doesn't run the story, and when Puck asks Kurt what he had to do to get them to pull it, he honestly doesn't know if the guy is joking when he says, "Promised them the rights to yours and Rachel's wedding pictures."

... ... ...

She's in L.A. in a recording studio, sitting on a large, comfortable sofa while he sits in the booth with his acoustic across his knees and headphones on. This is only his fifth day of recording for his album, and so far she's only heard the instrumental version of this one song that isn't even complete, and she loves it. It's different from his other stuff. Softer, slightly, and less rock. There's more of a singer-songwriter edge to it, but not in a lame way. He's not attempting to pander to the masses or anything like that.

It's got more heart in it.

Which is kind of terrifying, since she thought his previous records had a lot of that, too. That said, she didn't know him like she does now when she listened last.

She's _dying_ to listen to the lyrics. She hasn't heard any of his new material, not even the things he was working on in New York. He's very closed-lipped about his writing, which she supposes she can understand, but she wants to hear everything, so he's being mean by not letting her.

He comes in after he's finished recording the guitar part, and the sound engineer gives him a flash drive containing the unmixed version, and they call it a day. He finishes the rest of Rachel's tea without asking, not that she minds, and holds her hand while they leave the studio. There are photographers around, and he doesn't seem to care and she tries not to. They bump into a musician friend of his before they get to Puck's car, so the three of them chat and ignore the click of cameras, and Puck kisses Rachel's temple before he pulls open the door to his car for her.

She wants him to play the recording and sing it for her as soon as they get to his (amazing) house, but the drive is still in his pocket as he cooks dinner and talks about how good it is to be back in the studio, and this producer is one of his favourites, and blah, blah, blah, a bunch of things she should care about, but doesn't.

"Puck!" she pouts when he sets another glass of wine in front of her.

"What?" he laughs.

"Would you _please_ just sing it for me?" He starts shaking his head, so she hops down off the stool in his kitchen and grabs ahold of the sides of his shirt. "I miss hearing you sing. Part of the reason I fell in love with you was because of your singing."

She's laying it on really fucking thick, and he knows how messed up it is that it's totally working. The girl could ask him to cut off his arm for her and he'd seriously consider it.

"Fine," he says, and she squeals and jumps up and down all excitedly, and maybe it's the two glasses of wine she's had already, but she's cute and he kisses her before he grabs his laptop and pulls up the song.

Fuck, he's gotta sing this shit live to her? If he's doing that, he's doing it for real. He grumbles something and she looks confused until he gets his guitar from its stand and sits down on his sofa. She comes in and sits on the table across from him. He's going to sing this song with her sitting two feet away from him. Not intimidating at all.

He sings about Ohio. She's basically melting into a puddle on his coffee table as he sings about their home state and a girl with pretty brown eyes and a 'come kiss me smile'.

Jesus, how in the world is she supposed to respond to this? He took the nickname he's had for her practically since they met and turned it into a song about her, about them.

When he's done and waiting for her reaction, she takes the guitar from his hands and sets it gently on the sofa, then grabs the front of his shirt and pulls him to the edge of the couch.

"That was _the_ most fucking _romantic_ thing you have ever done," she tells him. She kisses him and he's smiling, and their dinner is in the oven, but she adds, "Sexy, too," and honestly, she doesn't care if she doesn't eat for three days as long as she has him right now.

He meets her in his bedroom after turning off the oven, and she's not undressed, because she tells him she wants him to do that for her, and when she murmurs that she loves him against his bare shoulder, all he feels is relieved that she liked that song. Well, he feels like he's fucking in love with her, too.

... ... ...

He waves her into the booth after he's done recording the final guitar part for the song she's watched him work on all day. He covers her ears with the headphones he was just wearing, pulls up the sheet music and lyrics and winks at her. She gapes at him, but he smacks her ass once and kisses her twice.

She sings the hell out of the song, once she's got the melody down. She's a fucking natural in the booth and her voice sounds incredible recorded when he listens to the playback of the first couple takes. He gets chills when she finishes her best take yet and her face is all flushed, breathing all heavy.

"You're amazing," he says against her hair, arms wrapped around her as they listen to her singing surrounding them in the studio.

"If you keep writing me songs, I may be forced to stay," she mumbles against his throat. He chuckles and holds her tighter, but shit, he could totally do that.

He tells her when he wrote the song and she loses her mind and pushes at his chest. It's not like it hurts or anything, 'cause she's sitting on top of him and they're in his bed, but still. She's all smirking when she asks if he's written any other songs for or about her. He says, "I'm not telling," and she fucking _moans_ because she definitely knows that was a yes.

... ... ...

Tony nominations come out and he swears she's the only one surprised that she's up for one.

He's not, but he doesn't care. She's nominated and so is their show, and the only thing that sucks about any of it is that he's in L.A. and she's in New York celebrating with her friends and not him.

... ... ...

They're in their home state state together for the first time, and he's driving a convertible with the top down and his girl beside him, and fuck, life could be a hell of a lot worse.

He's never really been into weddings. He gets the _point_, really, but he thinks maybe people who don't have attention on them _all_ the fucking time are probably more interested in this shit than people who do. He and Rachel have talked about this. Not getting married or anything, because fuck, _not yet_, but about the whole wedding thing as it pertains to the fact that her friends (who are becoming his friends) are having one. Santana's parents are apparently pretty well off, and are paying for practically everything. And evidently Finn's mom and step-dad aren't hurting either, because they're paying for the honeymoon and Finn and Santana are spending two weeks all expenses paid in Aruba.

So it's a huge church wedding. Well, huge by small town standards. Apparently there are about 200 people coming, and Santana's dress cost eight grand (_Jesus_) and the food is supposed to be out of this world and there's an open bar. Thank god. Puck doesn't know if he'll be able to make it through this whole thing without one.

Look, it's not that he doesn't want to be here. He wants to be with Rachel, and Finn and Santana have both said they're looking forward to him being there. He traveled under an alias so there'd be no photographers around other than the one being paid by the bride's mother. He just really hopes that no one will put more attention on him (and Rachel, and he and Rachel together) than they put on the couple getting married.

The rehearsal dinner is kind of a good thing, then, because it gives people a chance to let the shine come off his star (that's what Rachel says, obviously) before the day.

To be honest, he's kind of more worried about meeting her dads for the first time than anything else. When they were in New York for the show, he and Rachel weren't really anything to be talked about, so he didn't meet them. She's insistent her fathers are laid back and happy that she's happy, but...It's still him meeting her dads. It's kind of a big deal.

It's kind of important that they like him, you know, considering how much he likes her.

"I love it right now," she says randomly over the radio.

"Love what?" he laughs.

"Everything! This. You. Ohio. The wedding."

He lets her put her hand in his. "Okay."

Then they get to her house, a nice place in a nice neighbourhood with a basketball net in the driveway and all sorts of flowers around the front porch. It's like, the nicest lawn he's ever seen and she says her daddy has always used landscaping as his stress relief. He'd mention that most dudes just have sex for that, but then she's grabbing his hand and leading him to the door. There's no one inside, but he's looking around to check things out. Her dads are on the back deck with a bottle of wine sitting on the table and a few glasses there. They both get up and Rachel's squealing, and while one of her dads hugs her, the other one hugs him.

Okay, then. He's not so worried about them not liking him.

"So good to finally meet you!"

"Yeah, likewise," he says, smiling. It's really hard not to smile around this family, okay?

"Wine? We have wine. And there's beer inside if you'd rather. Actually..."

Puck laughs and holds out his hand. "Wine is good, thanks."

He pours for himself and Rachel while they ask about flights and make small talk, and he drapes his arm around her chair once he gets even more comfortable. They're up until like, 1:00 a.m. and realizing that they've both definitely had too much to drink to drive to their hotel for the night.

That's how he finds himself with Rachel curled up in his arms in her small, childhood bed, staring up at the glow-in-the-dark stars on her ceiling before he falls asleep.

... ... ...

She cries through the entire ceremony and when she catches Puck's eye in the church, he just smirks and shakes his head at her. He'd told her she'd do this, and she didn't want to believe she would. She should have known. She was just too proud to admit it. She doesn't know why; her best friends are getting married, so it's to be expected that she'd be a little emotional.

And seeing him sitting there with her fathers as even _they_ cry (after all, they've known Finn and Santana practically as long as she has) is kind of something. He's wearing a black suit with a straight black tie, and it's all a very simple look on him, but that doesn't mean he doesn't look absolutely incredible.

As she's walking back up the aisle with Finn's best friend (one of her oldest friends, too) Mike, she sees Puck patting her dad's back and starts laughing.

She and Mike both wanted their significant others to sit with them at the head table, and Santana had no problem with that, even though her mother was squawking about breaking tradition or something like that. Rachel grabs Puck as soon as they're done taking all the photos, and kisses him in a roomful of people because she doesn't care who sees them or has a camera right now.

"Hey," he laughs.

"Thanks for being my dad's shoulder to cry on," she giggles.

He shakes his head and slides his hand down her back. "We totally bonded." She laughs loudly and he wraps his arms around her, and over his shoulder she can see that several people are watching them. "You look incredible."

It dawns on her that they haven't seen one another since she left the hotel this morning in her jeans and tee shirt to go to the salon. He didn't see her hair pinned up like this, or her makeup, or her dress. Well, he saw the dress because she actually bought it in L.A. when she was visiting him once.

"Thank you."

He winks and she pulls him with her towards their table, sits down next to Santana with him on the other side of her. Well, he doesn't sit down until he's hugged Santana and kissed her cheek, told her congratulations and shaken Finn's hand.

She gets him to dance with her for a few slow songs, and when he's getting her another glass of champagne, someone asks her if she's next.

She doesn't have an answer, and then she and Puck are making out in the hall near the bathrooms when Santana tosses the bouquet, so she supposes she'll just have to wait and see.

... ... ...

He's finished recording his album and in New York for press, The Tonys, and Rachel.

(That last one seems way more important than the others.)

They've been together for like, a year, and that's just kind of crazy to him, because he's never been with anyone this long and honestly, he doesn't want to not be with her. He nearly snapped the other day when some asshole photographer got a little too close to her on the street and made her uncomfortable enough to cling to Puck's arm and say his name kind of desperately. He's protective over her, which he's thinking is pretty natural, considering.

The night of the Tonys, she wears Dior and they walk the red carpet together and this is totally her realm and he's totally letting the attention stay on her, because she looks incredible and she _is _incredible and she deserves it. He knows a few people they see, and she knows everyone, and even Patrick looks kind of happy to see him, which is pretty fucked up. Last he saw the guy, he was making it pretty clear that he hated the fact that Puck got Rachel.

Whatever. Puck didn't care about what the guy thought then and he doesn't care now.

Her name is announced as the winner and she seems completely frozen in her seat. The only part of her that moves is her hand to her mouth. When he whispers in her ear to get her ass up onto the stage, he's laughing and she turns to him, puts her hand on the back of his neck and kisses him with the cameras on them. The whole room is on their feet and she cries through most of her acceptance speech.

Yeah, he's in it. He honestly feels like he's gonna puke, he's so fucking proud. She says, "I love you," and blows him a kiss from the stage, and fucking _everyone_ will be talking about this tomorrow, but he doesn't give a shit.

She holds onto her award with a death grip at the party they go to.

He doesn't really care about that either, because her other hand is holding his just as tightly.

_**-Fin-**_


End file.
